


The Dalaran Debacle

by Kitkatkimble



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Intrigue, People Getting Dragged Into Shit They Don't Care About, Worldbuilding, sorry blizz this is my sandpit now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 23:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10174730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: No one actively searches for trouble. Pip can say this with relative surety, because the people who do don't last very long. Anjali asks for it, and Orasi runs into it, but no one goes looking. No one covers themself in honey and pokes a sleeping bear with a stick.Then again, the Kirin Tor said that no demon would get past their walls. Maybe everyone's a bit less certain than they think.





	1. Work Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Orasi goes to Azsuna.

1.

"I've got some work for you in Azsuna," Professor Pallin says. "I saw that organiser of yours - you're going down there anyway, may as well make yourself useful."

"I am of infinite use," Orasi protests haughtily, but the professor is far too much like them for comfort, and completely ignores this.

"It's just some work with the Illidari and their runes and such." Pallin wanders over to the other side of his shop and sets about fiddling with a new ink. "Oh, and then I think there are some pigments I'd like you to research - don't make that face, it's perfectly safe."

Orasi hadn't been making any particular face other than their resting one, but they've seen Pip's idea of a resting face, and school their features into something hopefully more friendly. Pallin is a professor and very clever, for a mortal. Orasi isn't self-sabotaging enough to ruin their chances with him completely off the bat.

"You want," they glance down at the list written in their organiser, "a selection of aquatic reagents, alongside Roseate and Sallow pigments."

"Precisely." Pallin dusts off his hands, and turns around. When he turns back, he says, "What are you still doing here? Chop chop!"

Orasi, always one to appreciate punctuality, chop chops.

 

2.

"You're going to Azsuna."

"Yes," says Orasi, with that distinct tone that adults often take when dealing with very small children. "I have some business I ought to take care of."

Pip pulls a face, and then a drink from his beer. "What's in Azsuna?"

"Herbs, of course. The Professor seemed adamant that they would be of some import, although I can hardly see why. And fish."

"Fish?"

"Yes, fish, keep up. He is making new inks. I think he is a madman."

Pip doesn't touch that statement. Orasi adjusts their hair in the reflection of the half-elf's armour, making sure the pomade is keeping it delicately in place.

"When will you be back?"

"I haven't the faintest." They pull their organiser from the netherspace where they store it, and flip through the ring-bound pages until they reach the current date. "There is a conference on transmutation theory that I wished to attend on the thirty-first, so I expect to be back by then at the latest."

"That's shapeshifting, right?"

"No, that is polymorphing. Shapeshifting is completely different."

"An expert, I see."

"Magic theory," they say, "is of very little use to me until it can be practically applied. I have said this before and I shall say it again; I am not a mage, I am magic. There is a very large distinction."

Pip nods his head towards the centre of the city, where the Kirin Tor have build a weird new chamber that does all sorts of confusing things. Orasi still hasn't quite got their head around it; Dalaran has changed so much since they were last here. "Those mages you were telling me about don't seem to agree."

"They just needed someone to retrieve an artefact from the Nexus." Orasi waves him away. "I was the obvious choice."

Said artefact, some old staff or something, is currently resting against their table. It sometimes speaks to Orasi; little sniping comments that they find incredibly irritating, and they would have snapped the staff in half by now if it weren't so useful. It does a nifty exploding thing. Orasi likes nifty exploding things.

"Speaking of which," they say, disappearing their organiser again and standing up. "I think one of them wanted to meet me. I mean, specifically with a purpose, not simply because I am Orasigosi."

Pip rolls his eyes, utterly unsurprised by Orasi's vanity, and takes another drink. "I'll be here."

They nod and collect Alodi - is that the staff or the wizard? - before pausing and turning back to Pip.

"When does Anjali arrive back in?"

"Haven't a clue, why?"

"I simply am not in the habit of leaving toddlers unsupervised for extended periods of time," they reply, and get a dirty look in response.

"A few more days," Pip clarifies. "They're on secret Sunreaver business that they couldn't possibly talk about with an ex-Silver Covenant member, you dense imbecile."

This is, Orasi assumes, a direct quote.

"Right. Well, try not to drink too much. And don't flirt with that barista, she likes women."

"How could you possibly know - "

But Orasi is already off, taking Aldur and their pointy hat with them. They have some teleporting to do, and doubtless that older annoying archmage will want something from them. He always does. They much prefer that nice old lady, Moderate or whatever her name is. She is far less irritating.

 

3.

Thankfully, it is not the irritating man this time. Rather, it is a dull looking apprentice to that archmage that Orasi has seen wandering around muttering to himself - Rargoth? Something like that. The apprentice says his name is Ravandwyr, which is six letters too long for Orasi to remember, so they promptly forget it and agree to go down to Azsuna with him.

It's almost like the universe wants them to go to Azsuna, which they know cannot possibly be true because Azsuna means Azurewing Repose and that, of course, means trouble.

Blue dragons, you know? Horrible creatures. Orasi likes to introduce themself as Dragonslayer Orasigosi, sometimes, because mortals are vastly unfamiliar with draconic naming conventions and always end up assuming that since their name doesn't end with a 'gos' or 'gosa' that they are, in fact, just ironically named. Mortals are so stupid.

The Chamber of the Guardian - see, they remembered that correctly at least - is pretty, admittedly. It's a nice enough place to stop by once in a while, whenever those mages seem to think Aruneth needs to be checked up on. They think Orasi is busy fighting the Legion with it. Orasi wishes they were busy fighting the Legion with it, but they exhausted most of their Legion fighting efforts with Pip and Anjali back in Tanaris during the invasions, and sensibly decided that demons just weren't for them.

They find a nice quiet corner - they won't be leaving for another hour or so, that apprentice is apparently dismal at punctuality - and settle down, Aluna propped up against the wall next to them and their organiser open on their knees. They enjoy keeping track of events. Most of their research is safely up in their head, but they have found that people are much harder to arrange and organise, and thus, the notebook.

"You."

They look up, scowl already forming, at the large battlemage who has decided to interrupt them. The human is tall and dark with a riot of curly hair, and they're wearing robes that look less like robes and more like a floral sundress. (In this weather! Disgraceful.)

"What's the date today."

"Twenty-first," Orasi replies with a sniff. "Learn to use a calendar."

The mage is not impressed by this, which both annoys Orasi, and raises their esteem for them by a notch or two. "The mission is due back when."

"How should I know? Ask that little goblin man, Abrakazam or whatever his name is. I am busy."

The corner of the human's lip does an odd, aborted little movement, and then they turn and head off. Orasi watches them go for half a second, trying to place where they've seen that fiery sword before, then decides that it doesn't matter and they have better things to be doing.

It takes Ravwyr one hour and a half to get ready. Orasi, who owns all of what they carry and nothing more, finds this ridiculous.

"You have too many possessions," they snipe as Ravwyr directs the both of them to the flight master. "I am certainly glad you are not my apprentice, or I would send you packing in half a second."

Radawy must be too stunned by Orasi's wit to respond, and Orasi spends the entire flight preening and holding onto their hat.

 

4.

Azsuna itself is exactly what Orasi was expecting: the same as it used to be, just more naga. And demons. And general weird shit.

"You need to - "

"Excuse me for one moment," they say to the demon hunter, and turn and walk off. Annoying old mage guy watches them go with what looks like irritation, and Orasi smiles smugly. It's a taste of his own medicine.

They take out their organiser. Ravanyw has gone off to the east. There are plenty of plants for Professor Pallin all over the place, but most of the marine reagents he wants are central and south. Azurewing Repose is north.

South it is, then.

They adjust their hat and saunter off.

 

5.

Mak'rana make good kebabs.

 

6.

They're gently coercing a little Aethril bush out of the ground when the demon stumbles upon them. There's half a moment wherein they both stare at each other, surprised and none too happy about it, before Orasi throws up a glimmering shield of energy and the felguard raises its hands.

"Listen," it says gruffly in accented Common, "am tired. Long day of invasion. Not want to beat the shit out of you."

"Marvellous," says Orasi, "I don't want to have the shit beaten out of me."

"Dinner spot there." The felguard points to a little patch of grass beneath a tree just a way off. It has a nice view of the ocean; Orasi approves. "Husband made charred meat."

"Oh! A suitable choice. Have you tasted it with fish sauce?"

It looks intrigued, and shakes its head. Orasi digs around in their pocket.

"Here," they say, and extend the little bottle. "Just a little bit, otherwise you lose the flavour of the meat. Do you eat vegetables?"

"No. Husband say good for digestion but taste disgusting."

"This will make them taste wonderful." Orasi pauses, then nods to the dinner spot. "May I join you?"

"Not tell if you not tell."

And so Orasi ends up eating dinner with Joglaz the felguard, whose pronouns are actually he/him, although he assures them that demons do not actually have much of a concept of gender, being personifications of evil and whatnot. Orasi, who doesn't have any idea of it either, wholeheartedly approves.

Joglaz can smell that Orasi is a dragon - he can't read Common so the letters on Orasi's hat are meaningless - and admits that the Legion has no quarrels with dragonkin. They don't like them, but without the Aspects, they're not exactly a threat. Especially not blue dragons.

"We are the most powerful race of dragonkin," bemoans Orasi, "and look where we are now! Stuck in the dullest corner of the planet, hoarding crystals! Pathetic."

"Can still join Legion," Joglaz offers, and Orasi sighs.

"No thank you, that is far too much work for me. I'm a very busy person."

"There there," he replies, and pats Orasi on the shoulder so gently that they only jerk forward a few feet.

 

7. 

Ryvana is where he said he'd be, unfortunately, and sends Orasi off to investigate the goings on of a cult that they couldn't care less about. Mortals do ridiculous things everyday, that is what makes them mortals. They don't think Radyvan has quite got this yet.

"Fel magic!" hisses the blood elf that decided to accompany them. She reminds them of Anjali, except smarter. "They should not be - "

"Silence!" they snap, and her head spins around to glare at them. They frown back. "If I wanted your input I would have asked for it. Your prattle is distracting."

"I am - "

"Uninteresting and unimportant. I don't care. Now be quiet, I am trying to read this tome and you are being very unhelpful."

She is mature enough - or smart enough - to realise any effort to regain their attention or otherwise persuade them is pointless.

The enclave itself is quite pretty, actually. They don’t have much of a memory of it - even when they were a curious whelp, they never explored eastwards much - but the structures are all elven and the air tingles with magic. They dart their tongue out every so often, tasting the mana, and if they had the biological capacity they would probably be purring. Unfortunately, elves are not made for that. A pity, rather; there are so many advantages to a more advanced larynx.

Orasi loses track of their progress, until suddenly Ravanyr is imprisoned in front of them and the other elf is yelling about something. Oh, and there's a warlock. Orasi sends a lazy flick of energy at them, and polymorphs them into an iguana. This is unintentional.

"Are we done here?" they ask the two actually-not-completely-incompetent mages, and Ravandwyr nods.

"Yes, I - I rather think so." He gathers up the iguana. "I'll see this is attended to. You should report to Archmage Khadgar - I can't believe Archmage Vargoth could do something like this."

Neither of those names mean anything to Orasi, so they just smile thin-lipped and swan out. The woman stops them just outside the door, and thanks them, so they pat her on the shoulder like Pip does to them. She looks a little surprised, but not displeased, so they assume it was a good move.

"Khadgar asked me to ask you to go up to Azurewing," she says as they sneak out of the enclave together. "The dragons require assistance."

"Marvellous," Orasi lies, and makes a mental note to avoid going up north. (As if they hadn't already.)

 

8.

The dead elves are just as annoying as they were fifty years ago. That prince fellow is a grovelling twit and the Nar'thalas Academy a sunken ship full of delusional ghosts. A frustrated looking adventurer is running around after Farondis (it's hard to forget a name that everyone keeps cursing) and Orasi takes advantage of the general naga commotion to sneak down into the Academy. They should probably bring Senegos some books as bribery - he's an elderly dragon with a lot of time on his hands. Orasi is not that stupid.

"Do some research for me in return," says the assistant, and Orasi agrees. They like research.

It turns out 'research' means 'fight illusions,' and that's the story of how Orasi ends up beating the crap out of their own grandfather.

 

9.

"Get me some - unicorn horns!"

"I am not doing that!"

"Contract, signed. You gotta. Do as I command!"

"Absolutely not, get off my hat."

"Oi, I - "

"Off."

 

10.

It really speaks more to Orasi's cowardice than their altruism that they would rather help out a group of pitfighters than go anywhere near Azurewing. The giants are loud and crude and the pitfighters are not much better. Orasi, who has spent the last few years in company with Anjali and Pip, should probably be used to this.

They offer their aid solely because the tuskarr person (once again, this obsessive mortal need for gendering others in daily life continues to bite them in the ass) is horrifyingly amusing. It's the same sort of fascination one gets from watching someone fall off a cliff; it's not exactly enjoyable, per se, but you can't drag your eyes away.

"You want me," they point to themself, "to fight them."

Them, in this case, is a seasoned group of gladiators. The tuskarr gives Orasi a onceover, and winces. (Look, if they knew how to shapeshift into something with a bit more muscle, they would, but it's either a skinny elf with scales or a bright blue cat. Take your pick.)

"You're not my first choice," the tuskarr says gruffly. He (???) points to the giants. "You just gotta keep them distracted long enough. I will make my escape."

"Yes, through the slave cave and the giant camp, you're so clever." Orasi scowls and flicks a hand lazily. "What do I get out of it?"

"There's plenty of gold lying around, this is a pirate cove."

"Dull. Boring. Uninteresting."

He scratches his marvellous whiskers. "I've got some little trinkets that you might find a use for. That staff of yours seems to like them."

Orasi glances over their shoulder, and Alunet is leaning determinedly towards a little chest.

"So it would seem," they say, and set about methodically dismantling the giant's team.

Several hours' work and some very angry gladiators later, Orasi finds themself sneaking through the cove, cloaked in a shitty invisibility spell that has left their feet and the tip of their hat visible. Thankfully, mortals are very dense. No one notices - or perhaps no one wants to notice - and they meet the tuskarr in front of the sea giant king.

"You must be joking."

"He must die."

"He is twenty feet tall and his trident has skulls embedded in it, what part of that seems even remotely manageable?"

The answer, of course, is none of it, but this doesn't stop Okuna (is that even a name or did they make that up?) charging in with a ferocious yell. Orasi groans, and follows him, because they're dead either way and it has been a while since they've gotten to cast more than a few cantrips or lazy blasts.

(Compared to mages, Orasi is technically cheating. They are an arcanist, and quite a fine one; they have studied and lived and breathed mana for their entire life, and being a blue dragon means that rather than tapping into their own internal mana supply, they just steal from the nearest ley line and let it loose. Of course, mortals are constrained from becoming too unfathomably powerful by their limited mana supply. This is because they are mortal and stupid. Orasi is neither - they are in fact very intelligent - and prefers to simply take advantage of their environment for literally limitless power.

In reality, this just means that they have no need for mana cookies for the sake of mana. For a snack, they do just fine.)

They enjoy getting a chance to show off their arcane mastery, and do so with relish, until finally the giant collapses to his knees and keels over. The thud is deafening.

Aruneth enjoys its treat very much.

 

11.

Professor Pallin’s illidari contact is lurking just above a Legion encampment, looking appropriately broody and angsty. Orasi sighs, and coughs, and she swivels her head to - well, she’s blind, isn’t she? Why is she trying to look at him? Stupid elves.

“Speak, or I shall - ”

“Not this again,” they whine, and tug at their hat. “I’m here for runes or glyphs or something. Pallin sent me.”

“Oh, it’s you.” She doesn’t introduce herself, just points down to the camp. “I want you to go down there and snuff out those runes, then kill the overseer.”

“Why?”

“Because the Legion must die.”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with inscription?”

“Runes.”

“I’m destroying them, not learning them.”

“Stop questioning me! There is work to be done, and your foolish questions hinder the cause.”

Orasi groans loudly, all the way through the camp, and more than one felguard looks around confusedly for the ghostly moans. Orasi, cloaked once again under their shittiest invisibility spell ever, just continues to stomp around and whinge. Just another day, really.

“Done,” they say petulantly, and extend a demanding hand. “Glyph, now.”

She rolls her eyes - don’t ask them how they know this, they just do - and they spend a few minutes going over the recipe. Once Orasi is satisfied, they go to leave, but she tells them there is yet another demon hunter who wants to teach them things. This one is a man up north, near the ley-ruins.

Orasi is a good student, and begrudgingly agrees.

 

12.

There are seven bushes of Aethril between the Legion encampment and Azurewing Repose. Orasi makes sure to gather them all, as well as spend five minutes helping another idiot demon hunter in exchange for glyphs. It isn’t worth it.

 

13.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't little Orasigosi."

"I am hardly little, I'm just in a smaller form." Orasi sniffs and tugs the stack of books out from the netherspace. "Hello, Grandfather."

Senegos rolls his shoulders and leans his head on his crossed front legs. He seems quite comfortable in his crystal pond; Orasi spots Agapanthus dragging away a Withered corpse, and wonders idly what they've been up to.

Azurewing hasn't changed much since they left. It's warmer than the Nexus, and dotted with more crystals than the dragons know what to do with. A few fat whelps bumble drunkenly past; mana-tapping is an art form that the children have yet to learn sufficiently. Orasi used to be dreadful at it, up until they found out that just drinking mana-water had the same effect. The dragons seem older, wearier, angrier, and even the whelps seem to keep close to Senegos.

It is different, they figure, but not as much as it could be. Just enough to be unnerving.

Senegos sniffs the air thoughtfully, then glances down at the books. "Are these for me?"

"Yes, from the old library at Nar'thalas. They're not much - mortals and their ideas of magic theory are so charming - but I thought they would serve adequately as idle curiousities." They pause, then add, "Or kindling."

"Very generous," Senegos rumbles, and nods. Orasi nods back. "Ah, yes, and you remember Stellagosa, of course."

They turn to look in the direction Senegos is, and yes, they do remember Stellagosa. She looks different out of her draconic form, which they last remember as being quite lanky and awkward limbed. (This could just be because the last time they saw each other was as adolescents.)

"Stella."

"Orasi." She tilts her head at him - she has decided to take an elven form as well, and they preen a little to note that she hasn't figured out how to make her hair a natural colour - and frowns. "You never said you were coming."

"I don't see a need to inform people incessantly of my whereabouts, no." They give her a disdainful once-over. "I heard you were caught up in some Legion troubles yourself. I would avoid hurling stones."

She rolls her eyes, and jerks her thumb to where Agapanthus is now stacking corpses neatly on top of each other. "You could've come a little faster, the Withered decided that yesterday happened to be the perfect time to strike. We almost didn't pull through."

"Sounds like I have perfect timing, then." They look back at her and fold their arms. "Enjoying babysitting?"

"If you call looking after family 'babysitting' then I feel sorry for you." She sighs, then waves a hand. "Listen, what's done is done. I've grown up and so have you. Hopefully. Truce?"

They stare at her for a long while. She gazes evenly back, and Senegos’s rumbling chuckle serves as background music.

“What’s the catch?”

“The Legion is invading and I have more important things to do than argue with my estranged cousin,” she states flatly.

“You and the others have never held off for anything before. Why should I believe that?”

Senegos tilts his head, and Stellagosa sighs, irritation flitting through her eyes. Her blue hair curls tighter, ringlets dancing to Senegos’ huffy breathing. Orasi’s eyes follow it with mild fascination.

“We were children,” she says. “We’re still young. Immature. But I’ve had to grow up faster. Have you seen the Legion camps?”

They sniff. “I have more sense than to peruse.”

“I don’t. I was trapped there until a demon hunter and a mortal saved me. Chained. Almost killed.” Her lips thin. “The Legion is my focus right now. Not you and your abnormalities.”

“Say that again and I will rip your tongue out.”

The threat is silky and dignified, and Orasi is surprised at their own collectedness, but it has the desired effect. Stellagosa moves on.

“I have better battles to fight. We stand together or not at all.”

“I don’t intend to fight anything for anyone other than myself.”

She frowns. “You should want to fight. You live here too.”

They wonder where she means. Here, as in Azurewing Repose? Not bloody likely. Azsuna? The Broken Isles? Tanaris was nicer, and had better beaches. Azeroth? Direct them to the nearest portal to Outland and they’ll be off.

She seems to discern their train of thought, and adds, “A home is a home no matter how temporary.”

“Very deep. When did you get so wise?”

“Times change, Orasi.”

“Yes,” they murmur, “I suppose they do.”


	2. A Tourist's Guide To Their Own Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anjali arrives in Dalaran.

1.   
  
Anjali is not, strictly speaking, legally allowed into Dalaran.    
  
This is apparently immensely funny to everyone who isn't them, and it's only because there are literal demons raining from the sky that Pip and Orasi manage to smuggle them in. Pip hastily yanks off their Sunreaver tabard, avoids the punch they throw for his head, and promises to get them a Silvermoon one in replacement. Anjali has no patriotic feelings for Silvermoon, but the tabard is at least similar enough for comfort.    
  
"Sewers," Pip says, and grabs Anjali and Orasi's hands to haul them down into the depths.    
  
It's different. The buildings are the same, but there are faces they don't recognise and alleys they don't remember. Much like Upper Dalaran, really; it's the same, but after five years it feels totally different. They're not sure if they like it very much.    
  
"Alright," Pip says, finding a spot of less-green wall and leaning back. "Count your coins. How much do we all have?"   
  
Orasi sniffs, gags, then reaches into nowhere and tugs out their organiser. The back pocket has a sheaf of notes and a bag of coins, but, being Orasi, they have a running total inscribed on the page opposite.    
  
"Two hundred and seventy-three gold, eighty-one silver, and three copper."   
  
Pip whistles. "I've got about a hundred in the bank, and a handful of loose change. Jali?"   
  
They tug out their coinpurse and count. "Twenty-seven silver, forty-six copper."   
  
"Shit, you're broke?"   
  
They glare at him and tuck the little pouch back into their boot. "I'm poor, you indifferent bastard."   
  
"Alright, alright." He holds up his hands and leans back, which is smart, because Anjali is on edge and looking for a target. "So we're floating you 'til you find work."   
  
"No. I was going to go to the church."   
  
Orasi raises an eyebrow - delicate and graceful as ever, the arrogant sod - and Pip blinks. "I was not previously aware that there was a church in Dalaran."   
  
"Of course there's a church in Dalaran." They fold their arms and rest their weight on one hip. "There's a gateway at the Antonidas Memorial. Takes you straight up."   
  
Orasi and Pip share a look, then Orasi shrugs and says, "Their business is their business."   
  
"Alright," says Pip dubiously, "but if you need us we'll be at the Legerdemain."   
  
"Of course you will," says Anjali, and that matter is closed.

  
  
2.   
  
The chapel is gone.    
  
They weren't exactly expecting it to still be there; it was a miracle it even made it to Northrend, let along down to Karazhan and then the Broken Isles. But it's still disappointing and a bit frustrating, because they really had been fond of it. (And, as a cleric, it's frustrating knowing that your place of worship got left behind to be annihilated by demons.)   
  
So they give the white and orange cones a vengeful kick, and stalk away from the memorial, heading for the Lounge. Looks like Orasi will have to pay for them after all.    
  
"Sunwarden?"   
  
They frown and look around, then see Kitz Proudbreeze hurrying over. She waves and smiles, and Anjali notices she's also abandoning her previous conversation. Ah. They're a distraction.    
  
"Kitty," they say, nodding and offering a hand. "Long time, no see."   
  
"I know!" She shakes their hand firmly and then loops her thumbs in her belt. "Looking for your old temple, huh?"   
  
"Yeah. It was lost?"   
  
"Didn't even make it to Karazhan. It's still hanging around in Crystalsong."   
  
That's a relief to hear.    
  
"Hey, listen." Kitz leans in and jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "This guy is mansplaining temporal anomalies to me and I don't think he knows I have six publications on arcane disturbances under my belt. Want to give me an excuse to run away?"   
  
"I can't afford drinks."   
  
"I know you don't drink on the job - wait, d'you still have your job?"   
  
They shake their head, and Kitz whistles and winces sympathetically. "Alright, no, come on. There's a whole heap of tradespeople and such here looking for workers. Let's go job hunting right now."   
  
Anjali raises their eyebrows, and follows Kitz's lead as she heads off in the direction of the Commerce Exchange. Gift horses, etcetera. May as well give it a shot. 

  
  
3.   
  
Both a priest emissary, a squire, and a very confused mage approach them as recruiters. They say they're long past their priesthood, never squired beneath anyone, and only know how to throw a firebolt. Kitz laughs at all three, utterly inappropriately, and makes Anjali feel better about being their usual blunt self.    
  
"You're so weird," she says amusedly. "I thought you were a paladin?"   
  
They wrinkle their nose. "I'm a Sunwarden."   
  
"What's that?"   
  
"Confused."   
  
This just makes Kitz laugh even louder. 

  
  
4.   
  
They sign on to help the blacksmith for a few days until his usual helper comes back from sick leave - bit hard to man the bellows with one hand a charred and mangled mess - and the smith is kind enough to pay them in advance.    
  
They also get a second job as a guard down in the Underbelly. Apparently the shift changes are important, but they zoned out. Guarding is guarding. It's just standing around all day waiting for an excuse to break someone's arm. (Or take a break, if you're Pip, but he has a very different philosophy to them.)   
  
It's enough to afford food and lodgings, which is really all they need. They've never been too big on material things; more to afford, more to carry in the event of a catastrophe, more to lose. They don't even have a backpack. All their pockets hold what they need, and they sewed a few more into their tabard just in case.    
  
(Not at the Legerdemain, of course. There's a boarding house over in Runeweaver Square that still has a few rooms open, and they've lived there before, so the landlord lets them in with a few silvers worth of deposit and a list of rules and regulations. Anjali, who has never willingly disobeyed a rule in their life, finds this supremely ridiculous.)   
  
So they flop back onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling, and pray. 

  
  
5.   
  
It's a week in. Orasi is best friends with the local inscription professor and merrily running around gathering this, that, and whatever. They are also attending as many lectures as they can sneak into. Anjali finds this depressing.    
  
Pip is... they have no idea what Pip's doing. He's always at the Legerdemain when they look for him, but he must have some sort of job, otherwise he couldn't afford it. Maybe it's a question they don't want to ask.    
  
They're hauling a stack of iron in from the forge when they hear a commotion from just out in the main street, and they deposit the metal and jog out just in time to get a frostbolt hurled two inches from their nose. They yank back, hand immediately going to their scimitar, and see a goblin with two black daggers making short work of a Kirin Tor guardian mage. The goblin is wearing a hood, but her belt is in full view, and it has a horrifically gaudy silver buckle. The guardian mage is not looking too good.    
  
Without pause, they throw a hand out, and a shimmering golden shield surrounds the mage. The goblin's head whips around and her eyes land on them, barely visible. They start fumbling with the peacebinding on their scimitar handle, but she hurtles forward with a rogue's speed.    
  
They roll to the side and consecrate the ground with a quick prayer, then levitate out of the way of her spinning kick. Their knot is half undone, but they'll need more time if they want to get their weapon into play. They reach for their shield, then curse, remembering they left it back in their room.    
  
The goblin presses forward in a flurry of masterful attacks - two hit their side before they get a shield up then call down a bolt of holy fire. The Light seems slow to answer, but it does, and the goblin darts back in a dodge. She reaches for a pocket in her cloak, but Anjali calls on the Light once more and slams her with a smite so powerful it blasts her cloak back and singes the edges.    
  
She abandons it, unclasping the restraining tie with nimble fingers. It gives Anjali time to finally undo their peaceknot, and they meet her daggers with their scimitar.    
  
From there, it's chaos. Two more mages arrive and clear the area, but they can't get any shots in without hitting Anjali. (Goblin rogues are small and blood elf clerics are tall. Go figure.) For their part, Anjali is fighting with one free hand and not enough balance, especially compared to the rogue's twin knives and lower centre of gravity. But where she's relying on martial skill only, Anjali has a whole host of spells up their sleeves, and they don't consider honour applicable in a street fight.    
  
Clearly, the rogue is smart. She's picked up that Anjali doesn't have a predictable skillset, and she's becoming more cautious to compensate. But eventually, Anjali manages to jarr her right dagger out of her hand, then hits her so hard on the head with the pommel of their scimitar that she's left blinking and dazed.    
  
A guardian mage rushes forward, but Anjali already has their cuffs out and around the goblin's wrists. She shakes the stars from her eyes, then narrows them, and she seems to slump. Anjali has dealt with enough criminals to know that just means she's considering her next move.    
  
"Thank you," says the mage, "we'll take it from here."   
  
Anjali considers him, taking in the cowl and the water elemental chugging away, then says; "No. I've got her. I'll take her to the cells."   
  
"We'll escort you, then," the mage says, and beckons for his compatriot. Anjali nudges the goblin, and they head off, the two mages shadowing them menacingly. 

  
  
6.   
  
"What's your name?"   
  
"Jaina Proudmoore."   
  
"Like fuck. What's your name?"   
  
They're doing paperwork. The goblin rogue is perched on the bench in the smallest holding cell, feet swinging, and Anjali is in a folding chair just outside it with paper stacked to their chin. Their pen scratches away idly, filling in bits of information about themself and the incident and now, hopefully, the perpetrator.    
  
"Flavia Caravaggio," she says, and that sounds more like the truth, so Anjali asks for the spelling and pens that into the form.    
  
"Age?"   
  
"32."   
  
"Race?"   
  
"Mixed. Goblin/Dark Iron."   
  
"Residence?"   
  
"Underbelly."   
  
"Occupation?"   
  
"Professional acquirer of items."   
  
"I'll put down thief."   
  
It goes on in much the same vein for a while. Caravaggio is a thief, and an experienced one if her fighting is anything to go by. Not, however, very good. She did get caught, after all.    
  
Eventually, Anjali sets aside their forms, and sits back. Caravaggio is cleaning the dirt from beneath her fingernails.    
  
"What were you even doing?"   
  
"Stealing."   
  
"Nothing has been reported missing." They flick through the details the guardian mages left them. "Why did you attack the guards?"   
  
"They attacked me first."   
  
"The truth."   
  
Caravaggio scowls. "That is the truth."   
  
"Guards don't attack unprovoked."   
  
"What d'ya want me to say?"   
  
"The truth."   
  
"I was in the citadel, on the job, and one mage came up to me and questioned me. She then threw a frostbolt at my head, so I defended myself."   
  
"I'm not a cop, you don't have to lie to me."   
  
"Yeah, I can tell, and I'm not." She groans and leans back against the wall. "I want a lawyer."   
  
Anjali frowns down at their forms, then looks up. "I'll talk to the captain. Get your story straight."   
  
"It's as straight as I am, honey," she replies, and turns away, a clear signal the conversation is over. 

  
  
7.   
  
"Yeah, of course people are still allowed into the Violet Citadel." Kitz points to the huge grand staircase leading up. "That's not just for show."   
  
"Right. Thanks."

  
  
8.   
  
There's literally nothing in the citadel except books and staircases. There are portals and gateways leading to Light knows where, yes, but all of those need you to be a mage to access or have some other sort of entry pass. Anjali found that out the hard way six years ago.    
  
They poke their head in a few rooms, wondering where the main portals have been moved to, until they turn around and see a guardian mage watching them very unsubtly.    
  
"What?" they demand, and the mage looks away.    
  
After another half hour of fruitless searching, they give up, and troop back to the holding cells where Caravaggio is still being kept.    
  
The captain, a human fellow with the most astonishing eyebrows, looks up when they come in. He frowns, and says, "How can I help you?"   
  
"I want to see Caravaggio in cell six." They know protocol. They were an officer for years. "Sunwarden Anjali."   
  
"Last name?"   
  
"Dawnheart," they add grudgingly.    
  
He notes this down in the book and nods to the corridor. "You've got half an hour before I'll have to get you to fill out forms."   
  
They nod and restrain a salute, then head in to see Caravaggio.    
  
She looks up at their arrival - it's hard to miss the stomp of their boots - and looks bored. "Oh, you again. What's up?"   
  
"What were you trying to steal?"   
  
"What's it to you?"   
  
"I'm looking into your case."   
  
"You said you weren't a cop."   
  
"I'm not. I'm a blacksmith's bellowsman and an Underbelly guard."    
  
"Guard, cop, same thing."   
  
"Different jurisdictions. Look, just - tell me the truth. I'm here to uphold the law, and if someone broke it, I want to know who and why."   
  
Caravaggio leans back, and eyes them thoughtfully. "Get me a packet of cigarettes and the best damn curry you elves can cook up, and I'll see what I can remember."   
  
"We don't bargain with prisoners."   
  
"I'm not a prisoner yet, and I thought you weren't a cop?"   
  
They scowl, and she smiles at them with that smug twist that reminds them of Orasi. "Alright. Cigarettes and fish head curry."   
  
"Don't you dare. Vindaloo or nothing."   
  
"You know we don't actually eat your idea of vindaloo."   
  
"Did I ask? Curry and cigs. That's my deal."   
  
They sigh, and stand up, and head out to try to find a less-than-decent curry joint.

  
  
9.   
  
"Shit, Boots, this is  _ good _ ."   
  
Caravaggio is scarfing down the madras curry with vigour. Anjali hadn't found a shitty curry house, so they'd had to actually go to their favourite place and get their preferred set. It's a bit validating that Caravaggio approves - which is of course ridiculous, because they're probably a criminal and Anjali is literally bribing them.    
  
Captain Elsingham has set up a folding chair and low table for them, and a stack of further forms. Anjali is fine with doing his paperwork. They've done so much in their life that it's basically mindless at this point, and it's perfectly acceptable protocol to assign another officer such work.    
  
"What's in it?" Caravaggio shoves a helping of briyani into her mouth and grins around it. "Chicken? Mutton?"   
  
"Hawkstrider," they say, flipping the page and starting on timesheets.    
  
"It's good. Where d'you import it from? Eversong?"   
  
"No idea."   
  
"What's the name of the place?"   
  
"Muthu's Curry House."   
  
"It's my favourite ever."   
  
She finishes the curry and cleans off her fingers, then extricates a cigarette. Anjali kept the lighter - they're not stupid, contrary to what Pip believes - so Caravaggio reaches it over to be lit.    
  
"I was stealing," Caravaggio says, taking a drag, "and I got what I was after."   
  
Anjali notes this down on a scrap sheet of paper. "What did you steal?"   
  
"Information."   
  
They look up, and frown. "You're a spy."   
  
Caravaggio shrugs. "The Kirin Tor stole information from my client and she wanted it back. I was just retrieving it."   
  
"They did?"   
  
"They have a monopoly on magical research. You think they'll let someone break that?"   
  
"I don't think anything yet. That's why I'm the one asking questions and you're the one being a smart ass."   
  
Caravaggio shrugs. "Can't argue with that."   
  
"Do you have the stolen goods?"   
  
She taps her head. "Right up here."   
  
"I want requisite proof."   
  
"Let me out and I'll show you."   
  
They glare and swing their foot off their knee to clunk on the floor. Caravaggio raises her hands defensively, and leans back. "Alright, alright. Seriously, though. The cops've only got to get their hands on what I know before they'll toss me over to the prison system. I want you to make my case so that doesn't happen, which means we're running on a short timeframe."   
  
Anjali observes them for a second, narrow-eyed and suspicious, then nods. "I'll investigate. But if the results indicate you're guilty of theft and assault of an officer, with no mitigating factors, that's on you."   
  
Caravaggio nods, and sticks a hand through the bars. "You're a good cop. Alright, babe, you've got a deal."

  
  
10.   
  
The bookshelf Caravaggio directs them to is in the Violet Citadel, on the second floor over in the corner. The books there are all manuscripts awaiting publication, or maybe those that have been rejected or are being edited or some other bureaucratic nonsense. Anjali isn't familiar with the intricacies of the Kirin Tor's research operations.    
  
Caravaggio said it was wrapped in a deep purple binding and the author was Renata Luna. Anjali crouches down and begins thumbing through the titles, skimming the Common slowly and making sure they aren't misreading anything.    
  
There it is. They tug it out and check the title - oh. Interesting. 'Power and Privilege in the Kirin Tor.' Maybe Caravaggio's story does have some weight to it.    
  
They look around. There's the same guardian mage they'd seen here the other day; she's studiously staring at the wall a few feet away from Anjali in a guard manoeuvre called 'I'm not watching you but if you pull anything I'll yell.' The curator and librarian are downstairs.   
  
So they stretch, conveniently highlighting the muscles in their arms and shoulders, then tuck the manuscript beneath their arm and tromp downstairs.    
  
"What's the borrowing policy here?" they ask, and the librarian - an elf woman with a fiery crown that really doesn't look like it belongs in a library - looks up.    
  
"Oh, feel free to borrow whatever you'd like from the available sections," she says earnestly. "Only Kirin Tor can access the restricted sections anyway. Can I have your name and publication please?"   
  
"Sunwarden Anjali, and the publication number is - " they pause and check the back, " - 6412784."   
  
"Thank you." She writes this down in her logbook and smiles. "Enjoy your learning, Sunwarden. Books are due back within two weeks."   
  
Anjali hasn't read a book in nearly a decade, let alone from a library, so they just nod and jog down the citadel steps to check in with the Dalaran City Registry. 

  
  
11.   
  
"You have the names and identification information of all Dalaran residents, correct?"   
  
"That is the duty of the registrar, yes." The gnome looks up at them and tilts their head. "What can I do for you today?"   
  
"I'm looking for a Renata Luna."   
  
They look Anjali up and down, taking in the battered armour and the peacebound scimitar, then raise an eyebrow. "Do you have a warrant?"   
  
"I'm working a case on behalf of Captain Elsingham." This is true; they're doing his paperwork. "Here are the relevant details."   
  
They pass over the arrest forms and basic briefing. They can't complete them until they have the full understanding of the case, and thus, they are free to remove them from the precinct. They know Dalaran's laws like the back of their hand.    
  
"Alright," the gnome says, after checking the forms against authenticators. "Renata Luna, you said?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
They spin in their chair and take out a wand, and suddenly the shelves behind them come alight with blue. They flick through rapidly, too fast for Anjali to catch anything, then land on the Ls.    
  
"Luna, Luna - yes, here we are. Permanent resident, 13a Lazuli Lane." The registrar scribbles this down on a piece of paper and passes it over.    
  
"Thanks," Anjali says, and heads out to pay Luna a visit. 

 

12.   
  
They pass Windrunner’s Sanctuary on the way, and their eyes inevitably trail up to the giant banners. Instead of the red and gold of the Sunreaver crest, they see Sylvanas’ face staring down at them, sharp and pointed. It looks wrong. Disjointed, out of place against the whirling spires that still have the red decoration and ornamentation from before the Purge.    
  
They look away, and make an internal promise not to look up again.

  
  
13.   
  
13a Lazuli Lane is a tiny flat with a hedge out the front. It looks exactly like somewhere a researching mage would live, although not an activist. Not enough banners.    
  
Anjali knocks solidly on the door, an officer's  _ ta-ta-ta, _ and waits.    
  
"One minute!" comes a wispy voice from inside, high and a bit like Kitz's, if Kitz had less attitude and more manners. Light footsteps patter down the hall, and then a middle-aged human woman opens the door.    
  
"Renata Luna?"   
  
"Yes, that's me." She tilts her head, birdlike, and blinks. "How can I help you?"   
  
They offer their hand, and Luna shakes it. She has a very strong handshake. "I'm Sunwarden Anjali, working on behalf of Captain Elsingham. I wanted to ask you a few questions."   
  
Luna looks concerned. "I see. Such as?"   
  
They hold up the manuscript. "You wrote this, correct?"   
  
She nods. "Yes."   
  
"And the Kirin Tor confiscated it?"   
  
"They are holding onto it until it can be published," she says diplomatically, which is bullshit for 'yes.'   
  
"Right." Anjali nods behind them. "You sent a spy in to retrieve some information. Flavia Caravaggio. She's currently in the holding cells for theft and assault of an officer."   
  
"Gracious, why?"   
  
"Maybe you can tell me."   
  
Luna studies them for a moment, then opens the door. "You'd best come in. I think we have some discussing to do that isn't for everyday ears."   
  
Anjali steps through, and Luna leads them into a cramped living room filled with books and manuscript paper. She waves them into one of two armchairs, and then gestures to the attached kitchen. "Tea?"   
  
"Masala?"   
  
"I think I have some."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
Luna sets about making a pot, and Anjali looks around. The books are all academic texts, either on sociology or history, as well as a few on the theory behind pyromancy. They hope that Luna isn't an arsonist; that would be inconvenient and believe it or not, they don't actually get a kick out of arresting people.    
  
"So," she says, pouring two chipped cups and passing one to Anjali. "What do you have to tell me?"   
  
They reach for the milk, and balance their saucer carefully on their knee. "Caravaggio is in the cells. I have a few hours to get the facts of the case before they're covered in dust, but I'm not convinced I understand it."   
  
"You said she was charged with assault of an officer?"   
  
"Yes. She claims she was reading your book - on your orders - when a guardian mage attacked her. She defended herself, fled out to the street, and that's where I apprehended her."   
  
Luna gives them a faintly amused look. Everything she does seems oddly faint. "You sound as if you're reading from a report."   
  
They fish out their papers and wave them. "I am. But I don't understand the motives."   
  
Luna taps her tea thoughtfully, then gestures to the manuscript tucked next to Anjali. "Have you read my work?"   
  
"No."   
  
"It's about corruption in Dalaran and the Kirin Tor."   
  
Oh. That makes sense.    
  
"I know I'm not an impartial observer in this case," she continues, "but there are plenty of other - unpublished - manuscripts on the same or similar topics. The Kirin Tor naturally won't ensure publication of things that challenge their institution, but unfortunately, they have a monopoly on magical research."   
  
"Naturally. It's seditious."   
  
"It's - "   
  
They raise a hand and she pauses, anger on hold. "That's just the law. I'm not passing judgement. So the Kirin Tor don't want this published. How did they know Caravaggio was working for you?"   
  
"I don't know."   
  
"Alright. But you think they knew, targeted her, and now want to put her away to keep it quiet."   
  
Luna nods, and takes a calming sip. Tea is a wonderful thing. "Yes, that's precisely what I think. No doubt she's aware of it too."   
  
Anjali swirls their tea then drains it, and sets the cup and saucer on the ottoman. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."   
  
She inclines her head graciously, then asks, "Do you think Caravaggio will be acquitted?"   
  
"I can't say right now."   
  
"But is there a possibility? They haven't formally charged her yet, let alone taken her to court."   
  
"If I can get enough evidence," Anjali says, "then I can take it to the DA and see if they'll waive the case and trial. But I can't promise anything."   
  
"Right, of course." She sighs, and slumps back. "Well, thank you, Sunwarden."   
  
"I'll be in touch," they say, and take their leave.

  
  
14.   
  
They stop by Muthu's and get themself their own madras curry, because it must be past three in the afternoon and now they're starving. They scarf it down on the steps of the Legerdemain, nod at the blacksmith when he walks past, and bask in the sunshine. Dalaran over the Broken Isles is warmer than Dalaran over Crystalsong Forest, and they're enjoying it immensely.    
  
Their Underbelly shift starts at six and ends past midnight. The guard station will close around ten if they remember correctly. So, if they're fast, they might be able to scrounge up the truth in the next three hours and then deliver it to the DA in time for their own guard duty.    
  
So they pay a visit to the inscription shop and hope Orasi is in. 

  
  
15.   
  
"Slow down," Orasi says, pen scritching away madly on the form Anjali gave them. "I can only write so fast, and these facts aren't going anywhere."   
  
"I'm in a hurry," they say, on edge but not quite snappish yet. Orasi rolls their eyes and keeps writing. "So, testimony from the suspect and her employer shows - "   
  
"Indicates."   
  
"Whatever! Indicates that this case is heavily involved in - no, indicates that the Kirin Tor institution is too heavily involved in the goings on - "   
  
"Proceedings."   
  
" _ Proceedings _ to be an impartial judging body. So it is recommended that the reader - that's the defence attorney - make efforts to... to critically analyse the guardian mages' - magi's? - evidence in light of this information."   
  
Orasi nods, keeps writing as they catch up, then taps their pen on the desk. "Do you need evidence from the guardian mage that first attacked Cavaggo?"   
  
"Caravaggio, and yes, but I have no idea who they are."   
  
"I shall make a note." They do so, then set down their pen and shuffle the forms into order. "Very well. That is everything?"   
  
"Yes, I think so." Anjali rubs their chin. "If the Kirin Tor broke the law by attacking a citizen unprovoked then they should face the consequences."   
  
"And you believe that's what happened?"   
  
"Caravaggio and Luna's stories line up. It's suspicious that the guardian mage who Caravaggio attacked hasn't come forward. So, yeah, I think that's what happened. The DA'll get both sides of the story and be able to cast their judgement better than me."   
  
Orasi nods, passes over the paperwork, then frowns over at them. They frown back. "If you ever are in need of assistance - financial, written, however - do not be - "   
  
"Thanks," they say, reigning their temper back. "I'm good for the moment."   
  
"You have two jobs and this besides."   
  
"Yeah, because that's what I need." They sigh and tuck the papers into their boot. "Listen, I'm poor. I know how to ask for help when I need it, and I know how to help myself. Don't go ‘round feeling guilty about it."   
  
"I am not guilty." They sniff and adjust their hat. "You are my friend, Anjali, and you have mortal needs that I do not. I do not eat every day, I do not spend money on things other than supplies and rent, and I am a dragon. It would be an honour to provide for you should you decide to ask."   
  
"Oh." They pause, and then smile. Orasi blinks and smiles back. "Alright. Thanks."   
  
"You are welcome. Now, I have some work for the Professor I should be doing and you have a case to deliver."   
  
"Right." They stand, and nod. "See you."   
  
But Orasi's attention is already gone, and Anjali sees themself out and heads off to deposit their papers on the DA's desk. 

  
  
16.   
  
They're just exiting the Underbelly from the north-east entrance when they get the distinct feeling that there's someone watching them. It's nearly one in the morning, and the lamps have been lit, but Anjali can't see anyone even when they look around.    
  
They untie the scrap of fabric around the handle of their scimitar, and start walking. They've never been particularly observant, and now is no different; the only proof they have of a stalker is the rolling feeling in their gut. Instinct alone.    
  
They take a right and head to the Antonidas Memorial, then draw their scimitar and wait.    
  
"Sunwarden Anjali?" asks a voice, and they squint suspiciously around. A cowled figure steps out of a shadow that hadn't been there before, and tugs down their hood. It's a blood elf that Anjali dimly recognises from years ago.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Someone wants to see you."   
  
"I'm not going anywhere."   
  
"Unfortunately, he can't come here. Let's take a quick trip."    
  
The woman casts a quick spell, and the gleaming spires of Silvermoon glitter through the swirls of a portal. Anjali frowns at her, then at the portal.    
  
"I'm not going to Silvermoon."   
  
"It will only take half an hour, at most. We promise to deliver you straight back to Dalaran afterwards."   
  
"I'm not sheathing my sword."   
  
The mage nods, accepting this, then steps through the portal first. Anjali waits for a moment, then follows her through.    
  
They dimly recognise Sunfury Spire, or whatever the fuck it's called. They're in an antechamber the mages use often, but now there's a very familiar face behind one of the desks.   
  
"Sunwarden," says Aethas Sunreaver. "It has been a long time. Sit down, sit down. Your work in Dalaran has been very interesting; I have a proposal for you."


	3. Painting Downstairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pip, to everyone's shock and horror, actually does something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: death, gore

1.   
  
There is So Much Blood.    
  
Pip really doesn't have a better way to describe it. He's seen crime scenes before - for fuck's sake, he's a  _ guard _ \- but this one is... impressive.   
  
"Fucking shit, dude," says his shift partner, a young human girl who can't be a day over twenty. "Light, I'm gonna - "   
  
She ducks off to vomit up her lunch, and Pip picks his way through the grime of the Underbelly to get a proper look.    
  
Dismembered doesn't really cover it. He survives by making light of a situation, but there's nothing funny about this. Some poor man got on the wrong side of a murderer and ended up painting the walls of the Underbelly; it's slick and shiny and there's not even any finesse about it, just skin and gore and a bloodsoaked brick lying nearby. A butchery would be cleaner.    
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," says Lirien accurately, and he can see her gripping her sword out of the corner of his eye. "What do we do, Sarge?"   
  
"You report back to the captain," he says, calmer than he feels. "I'll stay here and keep the area secure."   
  
She nods, the beads on the ends of her braids clattering together at the movement, and rushes off. He watches her go, then rolls up his sleeves and wades in.    
  
He's no detective. Typically, detectives are just guardian mages with a knack for scrying magic, which obviously Pip is not. He'd signed up with the guard because that was his job years ago and it's always handy to have someone on the force who's immune to magic in a magical city. He can wield a polearm, stand still for hours, and he's easygoing enough that he can be partnered with anyone and they'll get along.    
  
So, he's not a detective. But he has common sense and an eye for detail - an artistic background will do that - and often, that's enough.    
  
The man, judging by the head, looks about fifty. Just going grey at the temples. The assailant seems to have bashed his head in with the brick, then gone at him with a cleaver or axe or something similar; the torso, over near the wall, is covered in wounds. He'd been methodically torn apart and slung around for all to see.    
  
Pip isn't religious, but part of him wishes Anjali were here to say a few rites or something. Anything to give the man a little more honour than he'd been shown.    
  
People get killed in the Underbelly all the time, and he knows at least half are chalked up to suicide. Hung around during shift change: suicide. Spoke to the Widow: suicide. Tried one of that goblin inventor's potions: suicide. Murders, when you get down to the numbers, are actually few and far between. This isn't suicide. This is a man being brutally attacked in a hidden away alley, then made an example of; but to who, is a completely different question.    
  
He hears footsteps, and he turns to see Lirien come running back. She rests her hands on her knees as she catches her breath, and then looks up and nods. "I told Yu Chen to go get the captain. I didn't think it'd be smart to leave you here alone."   
  
"Good move." She smiles at the praise. "He'll be down in about ten minutes. Come on, let's see what we can figure out."   
  
She glances at the scene and nods determinedly, although he can see her face lose a little colour.    
  
"Ever killed anyone, Corporal?" he asks as he gestures her over to the other side. She gingerly steps over, and shakes her head.    
  
"Daddy said sometimes you've gotta protect what's important, but then he got shot by a guardsman. Mom never let me near a weapon after that."   
  
Pip nods. "Where was that? Stranglethorn?"   
  
"No, that was in Lakeshire."   
  
"Redregian guard?"   
  
She nods, and they share a brief look of mutual understanding and resignation. It's a very unique look and Pip has had to give it to far too many kids. Immigrant problems.   
  
"Have you?" she asks.    
  
"Yeah," he says, and suddenly feels old as balls. "Yeah, I've had my share."   
  
He points to the wall, then down to the pieces on the floor. The blood has seeped into the stones and mingled with the green sludge and sewage, and it's so damp that it's barely dried. "How d'you think you'd get blood everywhere like that?"   
  
She frowns, thinking, and folds her arms. "That's a lot. And it's not really splattered? It's like, you know when you want to get condensation off the wall of the shower, so you cup some water in your hands and throw it on the wall? It's like that."   
  
"It looks planted."   
  
"Yeah, exactly."   
  
He squints at the wall, then wanders over to look at it more closely. Lirien takes it a step further, and tugs a dagger out to scratch at the blood. It flakes off and floats to the ground in little leaflets, before dissolving and mingling with the liquid on the floor.    
  
"Why would someone want to plant blood?" She looks down at him and frowns. "I mean, there's a literal body there. Or - bits of a body. You don't really need  _ more _ blood."   
  
"I think we'll let the captain figure that out," he replies, and buries his hands in his pockets. "It never does well to get into something above your paygrade. Trust me."   
  
She gives him a dubious look, but they get no further before Captain Elsingham arrives with a squad. 

  
  
2.   
  
Pip, currently, is alone in Dalaran. Orasi is off running errands in Azsuna and Anjali is Light knows where doing Light knows what. It's kind of nice knowing that there won't be any dramas he'll have to be involved in, but at the same time, it's a bit dull. He hadn't realised how interesting they'd made his life.    
  
He and Orasi share a studio in Runeweaver Square. They split the rent sixty-forty (Pip spends more) and miraculously never end up being in there at the same time. Pip gets the bed and Orasi sleeps as a cat on the spare pillow. At least, that was the deal. They usually end up sleeping on Pip's chest, when they're both there, because Orasi is the fucking worst.    
  
When he isn't at work, he's at the Legerdemain Lounge drinking either coffee or beer, depending on the time of day and the state of his dignity. That's where Lirien finds him, halfway through a pint and puzzling his way through the sudoku on today's paper.    
  
"Sarge?"   
  
"I'm off duty, Lirien, just call me Pradip." He bites the end of his pencil and frowns. It looks like he got that three wrong.    
  
"Um, sorry. I just wanted to - is that the paper?"   
  
"Yup."   
  
She takes the seat opposite him and taps her nails on the table. They're a beautifully applied shade of orange that complements her dark skin nicely. He makes a mental note to ask where she got them done. "Have you read it?"   
  
"Nope."   
  
"You may want to see the second page..."   
  
He sighs and tucks his pencil into his stubby half-ponytail, then shakes the paper out, flipping back to the second page. "'The Axe Strikes Backs' - they seriously couldn't do any better than that? We don't even know it was an axe yet."   
  
She hushes him and glances around nervously. "Keep reading."   
  
They skim through, eyebrows shooting up with every paragraph, and then finally look up to meet her gaze. "And you need me to know about this because...?"   
  
"Because it's all lies." She raps her nails again furtively. "It's all complete rubbish, there could be an actual axe murderer out there and they're reporting it as a training accident? That's bullshit, Sar - Pradip."   
  
"No one wants a hysterical public."   
  
"But they're lying!"   
  
"It's a newspaper, Lirien, that's what newspapers do."   
  
"This doesn't worry you at all?"   
  
He sighs and folds the paper up, then leans forward on his elbows. She inches up in her seat, as if somehow by sheer determination alone she could disobey physics and make the distance smaller. "No. It doesn't. Look, Captain Elsingham knows what he's doing. If he told the reporters it was a training accident, then he had good reason for it."   
  
"You really trust him?"   
  
"I wouldn't trust that man with my lunch money, but he signs my paychecks and it's him, not me, that's the captain."   
  
"That's a shitty reason to let something slide," she says. "I'm going to ask him."   
  
He holds out a hand, and she pauses as she stands to go. "Hey, hey, no, alright. Let's look into it together. But don't go racing off to accuse people of things, alright? That shit'll get you fired for sure, and you've got another mouth to feed."   
  
Lirien stares at him, then her eyes widen and she sits down again. "How do you know about that?"   
  
"You still wear maternity shirts beneath your tabard."   
  
She immediately looks down, and her expression is so mortified that he takes pity on her and sighs. "I really don't care. How old are they?"   
  
"Three," she says. "He's three this February."   
  
"Getting through the terrible twos, well done. And his other parent?"   
  
"Take a wild guess, Sarge."   
  
He laughs, and fishes around in his pocket to pull out his wallet. She immediately starts protesting angrily, but he waves her away and sets a few silvers down beneath his mug.    
  
"That's for my beer, not your baby." He stands and nods towards the exit. "Come on, let's go harrass our superior officer."   
  
"Well," she grumbles, following him out, "when you say it like that it sounds stupid."

  
  
3.   
  
Captain Elsingham, conveniently, is nowhere to be found.    
  
Neither is Sergeant Saito, Sergeant Kim, or Lieutenant Duskrunner. Lirien curses the empty station out, and Pip sighs and rubs his eyes. They're probably investigating, or in meetings, or something else that gets them out of prying's way.    
  
"I'm going back down to look again," Lirien says, so Pip finds them both wellingtons and follows her down again. They find nothing but the same crime scene cordoned off with blood red rope. 

  
  
4.   
  
He's down in the sewers. He can hear the Legion descending onto Dalaran, the all-too-familiar crash and rumble of infernals. He jogs further in, water splashing beneath his boots and chainmail jingling.    
  
_ "Pip!!!!!" _ _   
_   
He jerks to a stop. The shout comes from somewhere, somewhere in the tunnels, but it echoes around wildly. He whips his head around, trying to see or hear or discern where it came from, but then another agonised cry rings out. He picks a tunnel at random and sprints.    
  
"Orasi!" He runs, keeps running, hoping and praying aloud. Since when was Dalaran this big? "Orasi, Orasi! I'm coming,  _ fuck _ , where are you?!"   
  
_ "Pip! Help m-" _   
  
"Orasi!!!!"   
  
He runs for what feels like forever, then bursts into a tunnel and sees red. Red and red and red and a discarded pointy hat soaked in red.    
  
He wakes shaking and sweating and barely makes it to the bathroom in time to say hello to his dinner again. 

  
  
5.   
  
"You're being perfectly ridiculous," says Orasi, voice fuzzy and crackly over the Scrype line. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, and I am not even in Dalaran."   
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Am I distracting you?"   
  
"You are always distracting me, I don't see why you ought to cease now."   
  
Technically, Pip is working, but he and Lirien are just standing around in front of one of the entrances to the Chamber of the Guardian. Guarding the guardian, and whatnot. So he doesn't feel at all bad about making personal calls on the job; besides, Lirien is still piqued from yesterday and is glaring at anyone who so much as comes near.    
  
"The pigments that the Professor is after are actually quite fascinating." Pip hears the flutter of pages as Orasi thumbs through their organiser. "Their components are the same, yet with an alteration in milling technique, one can create two distinct inks with separate properties."   
  
He never thought he'd be glad to hear Orasi's nerd chatter, but boy was he wrong. "That sounds wild."   
  
"You are being sarcastic," they reply snippily, "and yet you are, in essence, correct. This Aethril bush is native and remarkably common."   
  
"Can you smoke it?"   
  
"I would not know. But I hear the Fjarnskaggl of Stormheim is better than weed."   
  
"Nothing is better than a bit of thistle," Pip says, because it's true, then adds; "When are you getting back?"   
  
"It's only been five days, have some patience." They click their tongue, and then flip another page. "I should say - a generous estimate, of course - around the twenty-ninth."   
  
"You miss all of Winter Veil."   
  
"I was under the impression that you did not celebrate it."   
  
"Well, I don't. Just saying."   
  
They huff, then click their tongue. "Three more days, Pip. I swear, sometimes you are worse than Anjali."   
  
"Go fuck yourself," he replies cheerily, then hangs up.    
  
He tucks the Scrype orb back into a pocket of his tabard, and Lirien looks over curiously. He raises his eyebrows and she flushes.    
  
"Sorry, couldn't help but hear." She tilts her head. "Who's that?"   
  
"My flatmate. They're in Azsuna."   
  
"Oh, how wonderful. I sort of wanted to go until they said there was heaps of naga everywhere." She shivers and shakes her head. "And I couldn't take Deshaun with me."   
  
"Probably a bad idea," he agrees, and leans on his polearm. Lirien leans against the wall and wriggles her feet.    
  
The sun pokes its head out of the clouds, and they spend the rest of the afternoon sighing happily in the sunshine. He tugs the rest of his hair up into a shoddy bun-thing and Lirien laughs at him.    
  
They've both got the early morning Underbelly entrance shift tonight, which is literally the worst of the lot, so they split the second their replacements show their heads. Lirien asks if it's weird to invite your sergeant out for drinks, and he says it probably is. (Besides, he has a sudoku to finish, and Jali said they were getting in tonight.)

  
  
6.   
  
Anjali is not getting in tonight, they get in tomorrow at ten  _ am _ , you dipshit. 

  
  
7.   
  
"There's been another one."   
  
He looks at Lirien, and she nods grimly back. Captain Elsingham is staring down into the Underbelly with a look of internal turmoil.    
  
"We're still on duty, sir?"   
  
"Yes, Sergeant." He nods to the entrance. "No one enters and no one leaves. Not until I give the word."   
  
"Can I see?" Lirien asks.    
  
"No."   
  
"What are the details?" Pip asks in a low voice, the sort of confiding tone that people tend to take more as an invitation than a curious inquiry. Elsingham is no exception.    
  
"A woman, maybe sixty-five. Same method as before. Definitely a cleaver or hand-axe, non-serrated." Elsingham clasps his hands behind his back and looks over his shoulder into Dalaran proper. "Less bloody, less of a fight back. Same everything else."   
  
Pip glances at Lirien, and she frowns back. Less bloody. Something's different about this one.   
  
"Not a copycat?"   
  
"No. Impossible. Only the killer or eyewitnesses would know the previous victim was murdered."   
  
Pip nods. Elsingham isn't stupid; he had made the right call with what to reveal to the press. No information, no copycats.    
  
Elsingham confines them to watch duty, and then heads back in the direction of the station. They both wait until he's thoroughly out of sight, then turn to each other and bring out the rock, paper, scissors. Pip wins.    
  
"Keep watch well," he warns Lirien. "I'll tell you everything."   
  
She nods, then turns and straightens her back, and he hitches his tabard up and jogs down.    
  
There are still two investigators wandering around, and it's all roped off, but the scene is clear. Relatively speaking, it's an improvement; there are no swaths of blood across the walls or brilliant scarlet hats. But Pip vaguely recognises the old woman as one of his neighbours from further down the street, and feels an odd pang in his chest.    
  
He pokes around for a bit, careful not to cross the boundary, but doesn't find anything noteworthy. The investigators don't look to pleased either, and he shares a commiserating nod with one before heading back to brief Lirien. 

  
  
8.   
  
"It's horrible." She tucks her elbows in close to her sides and keeps trudging along; Pip offered to walk her home and she accepted. "That poor old lady."   
  
"Wrong place at the wrong time, probably." He claps Lirien on the shoulder gently. "Don't worry about it. Go home and take a nap."   
  
"You don't think they're connected."   
  
"The worst thing Mrs. Armitige did was paint over a real Godi mural accidentally, Corporal. No, I don't think there's a connection."   
  
"Then why?"   
  
He shrugs, and glances around once they reach the right flat. "No clue. Take care, alright?"   
  
She flashes him a brief smile and nods, then ducks inside and locks the door securely behind her. He waits until the last tumbler rolls, then heads off to his own home. You can never be too careful at night, even in a guard's tabard.    
  
He runs a lazy toothbrush around his mouth and kicks his boots off. He's got time for a nap before he meets Anjali at Krasus' Landing.    
  
It takes him a while to get to sleep, but within the hour his breathing evens and his thoughts drift away. 

  
  
9.   
  
He's down in the Underbelly. Deep down, in the large caverns with the drip-drip-drip of water falling from the ceiling. His footsteps follow him around the room.    
  
He looks around, and blinks, slow and hazy. It feels like he's wading through a mist.    
  
A bloodcurdling scream violently rips through the air, and he startles, falling into a defensive position. His polearm is in his hands.    
  
_ "Pip! _ Pip, where -  _ aaaaAAAAAAA!!!!!" _ _   
_   
It's Anjali.    
  
He bolts down the centre tunnel, and somehow this time his feet know where to go. He tears through the corridors until he sees the shadow of a raised axe ahead and -   
  
He's on the wrong side. There's a grill between them - he can see Anjali fighting off something - but he's on the wrong side.    
  
_ "Jali!!!!" _ _   
_   
"Pip!" They turn at his voice, and he stretches out a hand, eyes already widening and a yell forming on his lips. He knows what's going to happen, he knows, he can see it -   
  
They reach out, reach back, but then there's a sickening  _ thunk _ and a shower of blood and their eyes fill with agony. He thinks maybe he's screaming, but he can't hear past the rush of blood in his ears, and all he can do is watch as they slump forward, hand still outstretched desperately and scimitar clattering to the floor.    
  
He wakes to the sounds of whimpering, until he realises it's his own and goes to take a shower. The tiles are cold as he sits on them, and the water is hot as it rains down on his head and washes the sleep from his eyes. 

  
  
10.   
  
He's off duty today, because technically he already did his shift, so he dresses in a slightly nicer shirt and actually ties the laces of his boots. Anjali won't care, but it makes him feel a bit more like a person.    
  
He takes yesterday's paper with him to the landing. He still hasn't finished the sudoku. He doesn't want to read today's.    
  
A little after ten the sound of familiar heavy boots hits his ears, and he jerks his head up to see Anjali walking in his direction. They're openly wearing their Sunreaver tabard, and their gleaming shield reflects the morning sunlight obnoxiously.    
  
He's never been so glad to see their grumpy ass in his entire life.    
  
"You look like shit," they say, coming to a stop in front of him. His head barely reaches their shoulder. "Stop taking night shifts, idiot."   
  
"I missed you too."   
  
"That's not what I said." They scowl and stretch, and Pip resists the urge to hug them. "Fuck, I'm starving. They sent me here by flight, the assholes. Where's lunch?"   
  
"Da Chan’s Darnassian, my treat." He tucks his paper beneath his arm and leads the way, Anjali falling into step next to him. The crowds are dense, particularly at ten am on a Tuesday; people going to work, changing shifts, adventurers running around making a nuisance of themselves. Even Anjali's height doesn't help, because there are trolls and draenei and tauren milling around too. Can't defeat biology like that.    
  
"How was it?"   
  
"Don't ask me that, you know I can't answer." They move to take the shortcut through the Underbelly, but Pip grabs their arm, and they look back to glare at him. "What? It's faster."   
  
"There's been, uh, a couple of murders."   
  
They stare at him flatly. "It's the Underbelly."   
  
"Yeah, I know, but - trust me, okay? Bad plan. We'll just go this way."   
  
They roll their eyes, but don't kick up a stink, so he breathes a sigh of relief and they head off overland. 

  
  
11.   
  
Elsingham has decided to pair up the regular guard and the sewer guard in shifts, so that they're co-ordinated and don't miss anything. In the supreme irony that is Pip's life, he gets paired with Anjali, who looks utterly appalled at the introduction and then even more so at the briefing.    
  
"You didn't say it was a serial killer," they hiss as the captain sends them their separate ways. It's Lirien's day off, and because Pip's a sergeant Elsingham hadn't seen it necessary to give him a replacement - or, possibly, because he already has a partner in Anjali. Pip's kind of glad for it; he and Anjali squabble and bicker and fight nigh constantly, and Lirien would probably be intimidated by it.    
  
"It takes three victims for it to be a serial killer," he replies, and kicks his feet as he walks. Bright green sewer gunk flies from his boots.    
  
They roll their eyes and settle into the patrol, relaxing slightly and letting the tension out of their shoulders. Pip takes that as his cue to yawn, and gets a solid shoulder punch in response.    
  
Their shift is six hours, standard length, and they're about three hours in when Anjali straightens and looks around.    
  
"I heard something," they say, and Pip goes still. He strains his ears - he didn't get his father's dexterity, but he did get something closer to his hearing than his human mother's, and he can faintly make out the echoes Anjali must be hearing. It sounds like a scuffle.    
  
"This way."   
  
Anjali takes off down one of the tunnels, and Pip follows, both taking care to keep their footsteps as quiet as they can. Pip's chainmail jingles and Anjali's shield thwacks against their armour, muffled only by the thin fabric of their tabard. They're guards - no one expects them to be silent so they're never really in a position to be. Guards come running and yell and make a lot of noise, and the criminals run far away and never get caught.    
  
A wheezing cry sounds out, and Anjali bursts into the same tunnel that the first body was found. The blood is still everywhere, but now instead of a mystery man, Lirien is lying prone, struggling with a cloaked and hooded attacker.    
  
"Get them off her," Pip snaps, and Anjali unclips their shield and runs forward. The assailant leaps back, and produces two twin axes, so Anjali sets to work occupying their attention with a dazzling array of spells and manoeuvres.    
  
Pip drops to his knees next to Lirien and checks her over, shushing her as she tries to talk. Bruises around her neck, broken arm, but nothing fatal. She's fine.    
  
She uses him to get into something approximating a standing position, and he loops his arm around her waist, supporting her as best he can. He's short and stocky enough to make a good crutch, and she's solider than she looks. Young though she is, she's still a guard.    
  
"I - "   
  
"Shh," he whispers, "Jali's got this, shut up and we'll get you 'round the corner."   
  
He helps her away, taking a few turns for good luck. The sound of blades clashing follows them down the tunnels, echoing and bouncing around in a way that reminds him of his nightmares. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and keeps shuffling along.    
  
"Stay here," he murmurs, helping her down against a drier patch of stone. "We'll take care of this guy and be back in a second, alright? Got your sword?"   
  
She nods and draws it, holding it loosely in her good hand and curling her knees up. He rubs her shoulder, as gently as he can without being too patronising, then ducks away and runs back to find Anjali.    
  
The drip-drip-drip of the halls grates against his ears, and when he turns the corner his eyes dart immediately to the dried blood in the wall. The red of Anjali's tabard doesn't help; it just reminds him more of the look in their eyes as they got an axe to the back, and he bites back a retch.    
  
He's yanked from the recollections by the thunk of an axe in a shield, and then Anjali swearing. He fumbles for his polearm, and it clatters down against the stone; Anjali seems to register this, and ducks around to the other side of the mystery figure, inviting him to flank them.    
  
He does. He grabs his polearm and holds it in pale knuckles, then says in his best commanding sergeant voice, "Stand down! Drop your weapons now!"   
  
The assailant, rather than obeying, hurls an axe in Anjali's direction then rushes Pip. Anjali dodges, but he sees locks of hair fall to the floor as the axe catches their ponytail against the stone wall and rattles in place.    
  
He deflects the attacker's slice, then drops to the ground and swipes his polearm against their legs. It catches their shins and sends them hurtling to the floor, and just to make the point clearer, he slams a foot into their back and places the tip of the polearm right against their carotid artery.    
  
"Jali."   
  
They yank the remains of their ponytail free and stomp over, kicking the other axe out of the person's hand and then resting their boot on their fingers. They crouch down, elbows resting on their knees, and say;   
  
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning."   
  
He zones them out. The assailant - presumably the killer as well, judging by the size and shape of the axes - is still hooded, so he nods to Anjali and they yank the hood back. It reveals the face of a man he's seen around before; he can't remember his name, but the smooth features and rich dark hair are definitely familiar. He's certainly a member of the Kirin Tor.    
  
"Cuff him," Anjali says, and Pip does. They hang their shield back on the catch on their back, then toss their scimitar between their hands. "I'll be watching you. Try anything and I will not hesitate to restrain you or use force."   
  
Pip replaces his polearm and makes sure he has a solid hold on the man, before he nudges him into a walk and escorts him to where he knows the nearest patrol should be. Sure enough, Corporals Johannesen and Chou are there, and he and Anjali offload their mystery man and then hurry back to find Lirien. 

  
  
12.   
  
"I wanted to look at the first one again." She leans heavily against Pip, and he nods to Anjali, who sets to work doing what they can for her arm. "You know how we thought there was something wrong with the blood?"   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"The second one didn't have that? So I thought I'd check it again while Deshaun was still at preschool." She takes a careful breath, and rubs her neck. Anjali bats her hand away. "I think the blood is hiding something."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Like, you paint over an ugly wallpaper. Or a mural. Like Mrs. Armitige did. You gave me the idea."   
  
He frowns, then remembers, and frowns some more. "But why - "   
  
She cuts him off. "I think the old man wrote something. And then the killer saw, and knew whatever it was was bad, so he killed him and hid the message in blood. Or, red paint."   
  
He stares at her, and she stares resolutely back. "Remember, the blood was dry? But the floor was damp, 'cause the blood on the wall was really just paint, and it dried faster."   
  
"Lirien," he says, very slowly as he thinks it through, "you're a fucking genius."   
  
She laughs, then coughs, and gets a sharp scolding from Anjali as they whack her around the head then take their sparkly healing hands to her neck.    
  
Pip leaves Lirien with them, and picks his way back to the scene, conscious this time of the blood and water and sewage. The killer was hiding something. He and Lirien knew from the beginning that something was wrong with the blood on the wall; no doubt Captain Elsingham would have figured as much too. But what better way to divert suspicions than to make a single attack look like the work of a serial killer? A maniac on the loose is plenty distracting to the guard, and no doubt the killer had snuck down at the same time as Lirien to erase the blood on the wall and whatever message was left behind.    
  
He stands in front of the wall, and stares at the paint. The total swath covers about ten feet across, and it's about three feet wide. Several words, then. Graffitied onto the stone.    
  
Not many people know this, but Pip, by training, is a ceramicist. He's studied glazes and shapes and indentations and all sorts of things, until his hands were dyed and his clothes covered in plaster. He knows jack shit about street art, but he knows what happens when you paint something over with another thing; you leave miniscule traces, and it's never completely even. So he takes a deep breath, and prays that it works, then starts to run his hand as lightly as he can over the wall. With his other hand, he takes his sudoku pencil out of his ponytail, and sets to work.    
  
He goes over the entire wall at least five times, and slowly he starts to get an idea of where the words lie. They've actually been inscribed, very shallowly, with some sort of dull point. A solid stick of some kind of corrosive material, would be his best guess. The goblin inventor, whatever his name is, no doubt sold it at one point and the first victim had the idea of using it to leave a message that could never be erased.    
  
He traces the edges with his pencil. At first, there are only the faint shapes of bits of letters, but after three more tries, he gets the full sentence.    
  
_ THEY ARE AMONG US.  _ _   
_


	4. Sign My Petition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Orasi is horribly out of their depth.

1.  
  
Orasi doesn't actually have a job. They have responsibilities, yes - errands for the Professor, various research and whims of fancy projects, the whole 'owner of an artefact' schtick - but they don't have a job. Why should they? They're a dragon and they can provide well enough for themself without a steady source of income. Really, all they spend money on is their share of the rent, and half of Anjali's on the side.   
  
Dalaran, as a city, is hopelessly confusing to them. They remember bits and pieces; not in the same way Pip and Anjali do, but enough to notice the differences now. The Underbelly is disgusting and Windrunner's Sanctuary smells of death. Greyfang Enclave is full of dogs and they all sniff at Orasi when they go past; maybe they can smell the cat fur. The libraries are full of adventurers with muddy boots and every time Orasi tries to concentrate someone clatters through.   
  
They're searching for 'Mei Na Chen's Theory of Polymorphing and Associated Essays' when they come across a tome that's been misfiled. They turn it over to see if it's just an alphabetical mishap, but no. It's a book on sociology.   
  
With a sigh, they take it and head towards the librarian. You don't file books yourself, they've learnt; they tried once and got a severe scolding.   
  
As they walk, they read the blurb idly, skimming the elegant Thalassian. They don't understand any of the longer words - they don't understand much Thalassian past basic conversation and swearing - but they get the gist that it's more judgemental than analytical.   
  
"Librarian," they say, and she looks up from her indexing. "This was misfiled."   
  
"Oh, thank you, I'll put that back in just a moment." She takes it, and then looks shocked, and looks back to them. "Gracious, where did you find this?"   
  
"In the arcane theory section."   
  
"It doesn't belong there. This is a restricted text."   
  
"Restricted?" They blink and tilt their head. "It is a book. One can hardly restrict a _book."_ _  
_   
"Oh, no," she replies earnestly. "Some knowledge simply isn't meant for public eyes. Sensitive topics and such."   
  
They stare at her, then shake their head, mystified at the very premise. Certainly, some information would be classified; they imagine things like assassinations and such would be private knowledge. But why restrict books? Books are published to be read, after all, not hoarded away and never opened again. The very prospect is mildly unbelievable.   
  
"I see." They don't. "Well. Here is your book. Goodbye."   
  
They turn on their heel, and put the incident from their mind.

  
  
2\.   
  
The Hall of the Guardian is just as hectic as ever. Apparently, one of the other artefact weapon holders is in town - Orasi makes a careful note in their organiser to be unavailable from the thirtieth through to the tenth.   
  
(They do not understand the significance of their staff and they have no interest in understanding the significance of their staff and if the Super Secret Mage Club would just back the fuck off and let them explode things then they could all get along, but _no.)_ _  
_   
They find their favourite little nook down the back of the hall and sit down, propping Alenu on their knees and glaring at it as it tries to convince them that they should probably offload it to a worthier wielder. Someone sits next to them, and they look up to see the burly mage from last week. Their fiery sword - oh, it's an artefact, that's where Orasi's seen it before - seems less fiery today, and they look ferociously bored.   
  
"Orasigosi, right."   
  
"Yes." They give the mage a suspicious look. "Who might you be?"   
  
"Zuri Johari. Battlemage."   
  
"I see. Another lackey of the Terrace Guard."   
  
Johari lets out a spectacular snort at that, and shakes their head. They have an oddly lazy way of speaking that grates on Orasi's nerves. "As much as you are."   
  
"I serve none but myself, thank you very much."   
  
"Yes." They tilt their head back and look at Orasi amusedly out of the corner of their eyes. "I can tell."   
  
The two of them lapse into silence, because Orasi has nothing to say to this strange person and, evidently, Johari simply has no idea how to express their admiration and veneration of them. It's alright. Most people can't either.   
  
There comes the sound of slippered feet, and suddenly a blood elf comes into the hall, tall and carrying a staff so cold that Orasi can feel their eyebrows freezing up. She looks down at them, and her expression is mildly surprised and very closed off but, they think, not exactly hostile.   
  
"Can I sit here?" she asks in bouncy Common, the same sort of accent Anjali has when they speak, just less fluent. Orasi purses their lips, but Johari pats the floor next to them, and she regally takes a seat.   
  
Silence reigns once again. Orasi can see Johari studying the elf, and eventually their own curiousity overwhelms them, and they ask; "And you are?"   
  
"Elena Leysinger."   
  
Johari's eyebrows go up a fraction. "The sociologist."   
  
Leysinger nods, and then adds, "I am a magic theorist."   
  
"Dull," Orasi says.   
  
"She's the global expert on power politics in magical institutions."   
  
Leysinger splays her hands graciously and her staff rolls down her knees to rest on the floor. Orasi, now mildly less uninterested, leans forward and rests one elbow on their knee to prop up their chin. "I am very smart."   
  
"Yes." Johari leans back even further, somehow disobeying physics and curving their body to slouch into the wall. "I am an avid reader of your work."   
  
"You are...?"   
  
"Johari. Battlemage. Researcher. Kirin Tor saboteur."   
  
Orasi sniffs and drawls, "Not much of a saboteur if you inform random strangers of it."   
  
Their lip twitches, and Leysinger looks grudgingly amused. "Leysinger wrote the penultimate text on corruption in Silvermoon's magisters. You said yourself that you don't care about organisations. I'm fine."   
  
Orasi snorts in amusement and nods. Point to Johari.   
  
Leysinger suddenly laughs, a cold sort of thing that makes Orasi think of Grand Magus Telestra. They raise their eyebrows.   
  
"It is funny," she explains, then nods to them both. "The three most strong mage weapons are in the hands of three people who aren't loyal."   
  
Johari grins, a wicked thing that has Orasi leaning back. "Sounds like fate."   
  
"Fate, in my experience," they say, "has a particularly ironic sense of humour."

  
  
3\.   
  
"How was your conference?"   
  
"Nothing I was not previously aware of." Orasi dunks their bread into the hummus and munches idly. They're not sure whether they like it or not. "Transmutation is hardly an undiscovered area of study. I should expect these mages to have at least made some strides in understanding it."   
  
Pip snorts. "They're mages. Useless swots if ever I saw one."   
  
They're sitting on the curb beside the entrance to the Violet Hold, Pip eating his lunch while Orasi curiously nibbles. Pip's corporal, Lirenne or something, had to run away to pick her son up from somewhere; Orasi hadn't asked and doesn't care.   
  
It's a grey day, damp and with a cold wind coming through between the buildings. Pip's hair is curling even more thanks to the humidity, and Orasi's scales are itching. They sit on their free hand to restrain the urge to scratch.   
  
Pip swipes a generous helping of baba ganoush onto his bread and talks around it. Orasi wrinkles their nose. "Sho what'sh your nexsht move?"   
  
"That's revolting. I'm going to go to the post-graduate lectures on transmutation in nature; one of the topics is always shapeshifting and dragons in particular."   
  
He swallows and nods. "Hopefully you'll find something."   
  
"That _is_ the plan."   
  
"Can't believe you're still looking."   
  
Orasi huffs and toasts their bread lightly. "I do not appreciate being stuck in a form I am not fond of. You of all people would empathise with that."   
  
Pip snorts, then shoves another piece of bread in his mouth. Orasi kicks their feet out onto the street and leans back on their hands.   
  
After a while - conveniently when all the bread and dips are finished - Pip speaks again.   
  
"Would you stay in Dalaran? If you found a way to change back properly?"   
  
"Just because the landing is large enough for a dragon, doesn't mean the city is." They roll their shoulders thoughtfully and shrug. "To be entirely truthful? I can't say. I enjoyed travelling."   
  
"I'd come with you." Pip scratches his head and shrugs back. "If you went. Kinda want to know what dragon riding is like."   
  
"Not much fun for the dragon, I suspect."   
  
"You don't know that. I don't weigh _that_ much, you might not even notice."   
  
"I never knew you were an optimist."   
  
Pip laughs, then throws his rubbish into the bin opposite and stands up. "I'm not. Just hopeful. Come on, let's go move that desk your professor wanted."   
  
Orasi groans, because Pallin is always moving furniture and then changing his mind about it, but accepts the hand Pip offers and gets hauled to a stand. They straighten their shawl and check their collar in a shop window, then fall into step with Pip. Downtime is nice.

  
  
4\.   
  
They're back in the library, this time at half past one in the morning and tucked away in the divination section. They're reading a book about dispelling illusions and the sort of complications that arise in that magical interaction; not their field, but fascinating nonetheless.   
  
A set of quiet footsteps move past them, an aisle or two down, and they can see the bob and sway of a lantern. The library is open 24/7 - it's Dalaran's chief library, of course it is - so this isn't exactly surprising, but there's a niggling feeling in their gut that makes them snuff out their dim magefire and fall still. They're seated on the floor between two shelves, but they don't know if the newcomer is going to peruse their section.   
  
The footsteps move away, then come closer again, and Orasi peers through the shelf behind their back to see the mage from the Guardian Hall wandering around. Not Joahri - Orasi has seen them around enough to recognise them - but the blood elf woman with the pointy everything. Lesing or something.   
  
She walks through the shelves, and it looks like she's running a finger along the titles scanning for something. She pauses every few seconds, sometimes to take out a book and check the title, sometimes to tilt her head and read one on the shelf. Slowly, she meanders her way down the aisles, until she's in the one next to Orasi.   
  
They cross their fingers, and cast a silent invisibility spell.   
  
She turns the corner into their aisle, and they see she's floating the lantern along behind her, trailing faint sparkles of magelight in its wake. She has sharp eyes; the backlighting casts them into definement, the elven glow virulently blue - even her hair has a blue tinge. While her skin colour is closer to Pip's, her hair is like Orasi's, and they wonder for a split-second if she really is a blood elf at all.   
  
She stops, just in front of them, and reaches over their head to draw out a book. The title is 'Why Wards?' and the subtitle is something along the lines of 'The Theory Behind Abjuration.' What it's doing in the divination section, Orasi has no idea, but it wouldn't be the first time someone's put something in the wrong place.   
  
They hold their breath - they've gotten better at that, now that they're used to this mortal form - and keep still. The seconds drag out, long and slow and foreboding, as Leyser flicks through a few pages and reads a section. She glances around once more, then tucks the book under her arm and moves off.   
  
Orasi sighs in relief, but she pauses just as they do, and they freeze. She looks around, frowning more than she had been before, then her gaze falls on the open window at the end of the aisle. The curtain is flitting around in the wind. She must think it's just a draft.   
  
It takes four steady heartbeats for her to leave, and another twenty for Orasi to unfreeze. Just because she didn't have her staff with her, doesn't mean she hasn't left a chill in the air behind her.   
  
They gently shut their book, take a deep breath, then let their invisibility spell drop and slump back into the shelf.

  
  
5\.   
  
"You run a very disorganised library," they say to the librarian as they walk out. She gives them a look of consternation.   
  
"Oh, dear, it really shouldn't be. I order all the books myself."   
  
"Then perhaps consider hiring someone else."

  
  
6\.   
  
"As my studies have clearly shown, the hypothesis that polymorphing essentially affects one's original biology is unsubstantiated and..."   
  
The lecturer goes on, a professor or some sort, and Orasi continues to doodle in the margins of their new year organiser. They're drawing a little Pip on the 28th of February - the unfortunate man's birthday is actually on the 29th - and not listening to any of the drivel the speakers are saying. Most of it is just thinly veiled insults towards other people's work, and argumentative hypotheses. They are here for information, not to hear grad students sling rocks at each other.   
  
They stretch idly and glance around. They see a few familiar heads, ones that are at many similar events, but no one they remember the name of. They consider leaving, but then they look at how far away the doors are and decide they may as well stick around in case someone starts a fistfight.   
  
"You look bored," says a familiar drawl from behind them, and they startle and look around. Jora is sitting there, one boot propped on their knee, and eyes focused on the podium.   
  
"I could say the same for you," they reply snippily, and fold their arms. "I was busy."   
  
"Mhmm." They flick their gaze down to the daily plan. "Very."   
  
Orasi sniffs, and snaps the organiser shut, before whisking it away to their little pocket of nether and focusing their attention on Jahari. "Do you normally accost strangers in conferences and judge their behaviour?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Oh. Well, don't."   
  
"You sound like my girlfriend."   
  
"Your girlfriend definitely doesn't deserve a pest like you, then."   
  
They laugh, a cackle that rings with latent wickedness, and lean forward. They fold their arms on the back of Orasi's chair, and keep their eyes on the stage.   
  
"Fan of the Kirin Tor's research."   
  
"No. They are objectively terrible and clearly have never consulted an expert witness in their lives. I am only here to feel superior."   
  
"You speak like a guard."   
  
"You speak like you use rocks for mouthwash and yet you don't see me passing comment."   
  
They grin and nod at the professor. "Does he deserve his job."   
  
"Of course not, he's rubbish at it."   
  
"Who does, then."   
  
Orasi glances around, then points out a few students and two tutors. "They could do it far better than him. Especially that assistant, if she would stop phrasing statements as questions."   
  
"Why aren't they hired instead."   
  
"I don't know, who cares?"   
  
"You do. You think he's useless. Wouldn't you rather listen to someone knowledgeable.”   
  
"Well, I suppose." They squint at the completely incorrect diagram the professor is drawing on the blackboard. "At least they would know where the insulating mechanism is located."   
  
"Right." Johar nods, hair bumping up against Orasi's head, and they automatically raise their hands to check that today's headpiece is still in place. It has chain-linked crystals and it's very shiny. "Would you fire him."   
  
"In a heartbeat. What are you trying to lead me into?"   
  
"Critical thinking."   
  
"I think critically constantly. For example, you're an invasive blockhead."   
  
"Think about it," they advise, then stand and head for the exit. After a few moments, Orasi lets out a frustrated noise, and runs after them.   
  
They're waiting on the steps outside the lecture hall, adjusting their scarf in the reflection on the glass of the atrium. Orasi approaches them belligerently, and stamps one foot in the way Anjali does. It always annoys them, so they figure it might annoy Jarohi.   
  
"What do you want?"   
  
They turn and look at Orasi. Their gaze is expressionless - most of what they do seems to be expressionless - but Orasi gets the distinct impression that they're thinking deeply.   
  
"What do you think of the Kirin Tor."   
  
"I don't," is the prompt answer. "I couldn't care less about mages."   
  
This is true. After hanging around in the Nexus for so long and listening to how mortals were destroying magic - all while Malygos himself was busy literally rerouting ley lines - Orasi rather got sick of the whole thing. Yes, of course they think mortals use magic frivolously and with no respect. No, they don't care and it very clearly doesn't affect them.   
  
"That's not what I asked." Johari - that's their name! - links their hands behind their back and gazes at them. Orasi gazes back. "What do you think of the Kirin Tor."   
  
"They have an unhealthy obsession with purple and don't know how to run a library. I don't know, I don't involve myself in their affairs."   
  
"You live in Dalaran and attend Kirin Tor conferences. You work for the Tirisgarde. You are a mage."   
  
"Incorrect on the last two, I do nothing for the Terrace Guard and I am not a mage."   
  
Johari raises their eyebrows, and Orasi stares stolidly back. "Alright. What are you."   
  
"A grand arcanist, thank you very much."   
  
"That's the same thing."   
  
"It is completely different. I do not expect you to understand the subtle nuances between magical professions."   
  
Johari gives them a flat look. They sniff haughtily and fold their arms.   
  
"If you have nothing else to say, I will be off. I have no further interest in your company."   
  
They spin on their heel and stride off, and Johari neither calls nor comes after them. They can't decide whether to be smug about this, or peeved.

  
  
7\.   
  
They decide to be peeved, and go off to have a pout in the privacy of their own flat. Pip is snoring on the bed, because he's a bastard, so they shift into their cat form and leap up onto his chest. He doesn't wake, so they pad around for a minute before settling down and drifting off themself.   
  
It's a nice nap. Orasi doesn't need to sleep half as much as Pip does, but that doesn't mean they don't enjoy a good doze every now and then. By this, they mean every day. Sleeping is fun.   
  
Pip wakes them up when he wakes - again, because Pip is a bastard - and the two of them go off in search of a steak, Orasi draped over Pip's shoulders flicking their tail lazily.

  
  
8\.   
  
"I'm telling you, you have a serious disorganisation problem and it is becoming incredibly disruptive to my study!"   
  
"I'm sorry, I simply don't know what could possibly be causing the problem. I have all my books enspelled with return charms."   
  
"Then maybe your charming isn't as good as you think it is."   
  
The librarian looks hurt at that, so Orasi huffs and places the pile of incorrectly sorted books on the desk. Her eyebrows shoot up, and her mouth drops open.   
  
"Surely these aren't all misfiled books?"   
  
"Surely they are." Orasi taps the pile meaningfully. "I would redo the return charm. I don't believe it works as well as you'd like it to."   
  
She draws out her wand (What is with librarians and wands? Do they just like the direction? Orasi has never studied it.) and taps each book, frowning as she does. Orasi, satisfied with this, leaves her to her work and disappears back off into the transmutation section.   
  
They draw up a pouf and sit themself down with a selection of Archmage Lan'dalock's essays, and blow out a comfortable jet of steam. It's nice and early this time, about sunset, and the window above them is letting in the light. If they hadn't already taken a nap, they'd be tempted to curl up and do so again. It's quiet and still and the golds and purples of the stained glass is hurled across the floor and up the bookshelves in generous swaths of light. If Orasi had an artistic bone in their body - which they don't - they'd consider it impressive.   
  
_Consider the following: a dragon transforms into a mortal form. Does the dragon choose the form, or does the form fit the dragon? Conflicting accounts have been collected that would support both possibilities..._ _  
_   
Click.   
  
They glance up. The sun has set and the lamps on the walls have replaced its light. The glow is dim and soft, very gentle. Enough that Orasi can still read perfectly well, if they stick to their current position.   
  
Footsteps wander past. It's not Leydancer, Orasi can see, but a newcomer. A human woman with brown hair, maybe about forty, who keeps glancing around furtively as if she isn't meant to be there. If she's trying not to be suspicious, she's going completely the wrong way about it.   
  
She looks through the shelves once, then again with more fervour. She goes back and forth and back and forth, getting visibly more nervous and upset with each track. Orasi watches with something approaching fascinated amusement as she goes through the next few aisles - she doesn't seem to realise they're there - then goes back to where she was.   
  
She bites her nails, then leans her back against a shelf. After a minute or so of worrying, she pushes off, and ducks back the way she came.   
  
Orasi shakes their head in bemusement and goes back to their book.

  
  
9\.   
  
They swing by Anjali's boarding house the next day, only to find that they aren't actually in. So they wait out on the front steps as a cat, curled up in a puddle of sunshine, until they hear the familiar stomp of heavy boots.   
  
Anjali looks down at them and groans, then reaches down to awkwardly pick them up and carry them back upstairs. They'd be lying if they said they weren't pleased with this; a skinny mortal form does not a stair climber make. Anjali, who is more muscle than sense, does not have this problem.   
  
Orasi leaps from their arms when they get to Anjali's room, and slimes against their boots idly as they fumble with the key. Cat instincts, nothing rational. Then the door swings open, and they pad inside to hop up onto the bed and shapeshift back.   
  
"What d'you want?" Anjali asks, shutting the door and clicking the lock. Their room is tiny; a bed, a wardrobe built into the wall, and a desk beside the wardrobe. There isn't even space for a deskchair, so Orasi isn't quite sure of the point of the addition. There's a small bathroom as well, but they've never poked their head in.   
  
"I have a request."   
  
"What is it?" Anjali pulls open the wardrobe and begins tugging their tabard over their head. Their voice comes muffled. "'m not doing 'nything illeg'l."   
  
"I had figured so much," Orasi drawls, then straightens. "No. I would ask Pip but I don't think he is sleeping enough so I have decided to ask you instead."   
  
Anjali gives them a weird look as they disentangle their arms from the Underbelly tabard and hang it up, before starting on the clips and clasps of their odd assortment of armour. "What is it?"   
  
"How well do you know the citadel library?"   
  
"Not at all."   
  
"Right. Fantastic. Well, I have a sneaking suspicion that there is some sort of operation going on."   
  
Anjali stares at them. They stare back.   
  
"You're serious."   
  
"I am very serious." They look around, find Anjali's pillow, then make themself comfortable propped up against the headboard. "The librarian - whom I have always known to be organised to the point of compulsion - seems to be unable to file her books. Strange people come through the library searching for specific books; none of which, from what little I have managed to glimpse, belong in the places they are found. Thus - an operation."   
  
"Spying."   
  
"Precisely."   
  
Anjali opens their mouth to say something, then gets caught up in a sudden coughing fit. They wave away Orasi's offer of a raised pillow and a smacking gesture, and go for the water glass on the desk.   
  
"What do you want _me_ to do?"   
  
"I want you to come with me tonight and be a second pair of eyes." They sniff and give Anjali a disdainful look. "I know you are incapable of being anything approaching quiet, but I clearly have no one better to ask."   
  
"Asshole," says Anjali, and they genuinely can't tell if it's fond or insulting. "Alright. You know I'm not an officer, so I can't arrest them."   
  
"I'm aware." The difference between the Underbelly guards and the regular cohort has been drilled into their head over the past six months. "I need another watcher, and possibly some more muscle."   
  
"You think we might get into a fight?"   
  
"I believe in preparing for all eventualities."   
  
Anjali tugs on a clean shirt, then nods. "Alright. Now?"   
  
"They arrive at night. I suggest you take a nap." Orasi slides off the bed and heads for the door. "I will knock at about seven."   
  
"Great." Anjali flops down and buries their head under their pillow. "'m l'king forw'rd to it."

  
  
10\.   
  
When they pick Anjali up that evening, their room smells so badly of fish and chips that Orasi is briefly tempted to slip into their feline form and gobble down the copious leftovers.

  
  
11\.   
  
To their credit, neither of them doze off at all. Orasi amuses themself with the same Lan'dalock book, and Anjali stands in a shadow and guards. It's actually kind of unnerving; Anjali can be very, very still when they put their mind to it.   
  
At sometime after twelve, something stirs. Orasi glances up and holds still.   
  
It's the same woman from last night. She makes a beeline for the shelf she'd been searching through yesterday, but this time she's successful - she tugs out a thick tome and flips through.   
  
Then she does something Orasi hasn't seen before: she takes a little scrap of paper from a pocket, and begins to cross check it with the tome. Or, maybe she's looking up page numbers. Without the actual paper, Orasi hasn't a clue what exactly she's trying to do.   
  
It takes her about ten minutes. It's ten minutes of not enough breath and not enough movement and far too much tension. Anjali shifts, and Orasi's glad they left their armour in their room - it would almost certainly have clanked. As it stands, the only sound the movement makes is the shift of bootheels on carpet, and the woman doesn't appear to notice.   
  
She shuts the book and slides it back onto the shelf. Then, she takes the one next to it; she tries to put the scrap of paper back in her pocket, but it escapes and floats to the floor behind her as she leaves.   
  
Orasi counts to one hundred, then nods to Anjali, and they move off. On their way out, Orasi takes the book that the woman had been reading. Anjali rescues the paper. They share a glance, a nod, and then split.

  
  
12\.   
  
"This is the decimal system number," Orasi says, flattening out the paper and deciphering the scratchy little words. "That tells you which section to look in."   
  
Anjali nods and flips the book open. They're both seated on the floor back in Orasi and Pip's flat - Pip is sound asleep in the bedroom, so they've monopolised the living room and have abandoned the rickety chairs in favour of the thin carpet. "Where were we?"   
  
"700," Orasi says. "Transmutation."   
  
"And the 83?"   
  
"That's the subcategory. I don't know it off the top of my head." They run a fingernail down the neat column beneath the 783. "These, I'm not certain. Page numbers, most likely, but they could also be chapters or appendices or any number of other things."   
  
"So?" Anjali looks around, then stretches and yanks a pencil and paper off one of Orasi's desks. The desk is made of library books. They're a dragon, they're allowed to hoard things. "We've got time. Try everything and see what gets us the best answer."   
  
"Well. If you insist." That sounds like a lot of effort. Orasi does not like expending effort.   
  
They try page numbers first. It's very time consuming and very dull and not even the most talented writer could possibly make it sound even remotely interesting.   
  
"I think I've met that woman before," Anjali says, breaking the silence at around six am. Orasi glances up. "When we first arrived. Way back."   
  
"Really? Who is she?"   
  
"A studying mage, or something. Luta or Lana or Luna. Can't remember her first name."   
  
How interesting.   
  
Pip staggers into the room at about seven-thirty, just as they've moved on to chapters and paragraphs. He makes a beeline for the coffee plunger, then realises they're there, and squints at them. His bedhead is horrific.   
  
"What're you doing?"   
  
"Make your coffee," Anjali says, and he does. Pip is a very smart man, Orasi has always thought. Deep underneath the casual nature and laziness lies a sharp, sharp warrior.   
  
"What are you doing?" he tries again, after one and a half cups of coffee and a bowl of muesli. Orasi accepts a cup of tea, and Anjali reluctantly nibbles on an apple.   
  
"Hunting for villains," says Anjali, and apparently this is a joke that Orasi does not understand, because Pip spits a mouthful of coffee into his muesli and Anjali actually laughs. Briefly. Mostly from schadenfreude.   
  
So Orasi explains, and then Pip tells them about his murderous graffiti, and Anjali recalls as much about Lara as they can. None of them can puzzle out any sort of link, but Orasi is sure there is one; Dalaran is a small city and these events do seem to be pointing in a direction. If only their compass had labels.   
  
"We don't know what we're looking for and we don't know how to find it," says Pip. "But it looks like things are happening that will let us figure it out, so what say you put the enchanting book down and go take a nap."   
  
That last bit is directed at Anjali, who flips him off while yawning in a grand display of irony.   
  
"I think," Orasi replies slowly, "we had best keep our eyes out. I, for one, have no intention of being murdered by an axeman."   
  
Anjali snorts, but Pip just looks a bit green. "Great," he says, then stuffs another spoonful of muesli in his mouth. Orasi has to look away.   
  
They slip the paper into their organiser for safekeeping, then set the book on the top of their desk. Pip looks a bit dubious, but is quickly distracted by a rogue sultana and never looks back.   
  
"I will be asleep if anyone requires my aid," they say, heading to the bedroom and putting a hand on the door. "Thank you both for your help, but mostly Anjali."   
  
Pip pouts, and Anjali nods, so Orasi takes it as their cue to shut the door and flop into bed. A nap, right now, sounds like a very good idea.   
  
They're just dozing off when Pip pokes his head in.   
  
"I'll be back late tonight, okay?"   
  
"Mmm."   
  
"Hey, Orasi. I'll be late. Don't worry if I'm not back."   
  
"Mhmm."   
  
Pip sighs, and gives up. Orasi purrs smugly, and slips away into sleep.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anjali reluctantly makes an acquaintance.

1.

It’s not every day you walk out of your room to find the guard doorknocking. Anjali blinks, watching as a private with a worn notebook takes down the rambling statement of the woman next door, then turns their head at a cough from their other side.

“Sorry, we’re looking into a crime done here. Can I ask you some questions?”

They squint at the girl, then remember where they’ve seen her - she’s Pip’s corporal. Lirene or something. Her badge says ‘Corporal Afendi,’ but those aren’t always true. After a while, any badge with the right rank becomes free game.

“What?”

She straightens a bit, and nods down the hall. “What were you doing between three and four am last night?”

“I had a shift in the Underbelly. Anyone can confirm it. Who’s dead?”

“No one’s dead. There was a break in, and one of your neighbours was attacked.”

“But they survived.”

“Yeah. She was found by her friend this morning.”

“Which room?”

“45.”

Anjali nods. They don’t know who lives there - they don’t know any of their neighbours, for good reason - but it’s enough doors down that even if they had been in their room, they wouldn’t have heard anything.

Corporal Lirien (probably) props her hands on her hips. She is very young. Anjali finds it annoying. “So you didn’t see anything?”

“Obviously not.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing, I don’t know who she is. I’m late for work, can I go?”

“I’ll get someone at the station to confirm your alibi,” Lirien says, “but I’d like your help here.”

“Ask Pip.”

“He’s not at work today. You helped me before, please? C’mon, tell your employer it was guard business.”

“I still wouldn’t get paid. Solve your own cases.”

They shut their door, lock it carefully, and walk off. Lirien lets out a frustrated noise. Anjali doesn’t care. They’d be about as much use as a hamburger joint in Thunder Bluff, and anyway, they’ve got to eat. Either Lirien is a good member of the guard and can work by herself, or she isn’t. Not their problem.

(They think maybe they could have been politer, but then they step out into Dalaran’s traffic, and forget all about it.)

 

2.

“Yeah, no, it was terrible.” Kitz takes a sip of her ristretto. Anjali can taste the bitterness from their seat across the table, and adds another sugar to their latte in protest; Kitz had tried to get them a pastry, but they negotiated and settled on just a coffee. Food isn’t really agreeing with them right now. “I didn’t realise you lived in the same building, though?”

“Small world.”

They’re seated outside the coffee shop next to Sunreaver’s - sorry, _Windrunner’s_ Sanctuary. The tables sprawl out onto the road, encroaching upon the traffic in much the same way a glass of wine spills; it is unstoppable and immovable, and often inconvenient. Especially to the road.

It’s a grey day, and for once Anjali is glad of the furious heat of the blacksmith’s. They may be sweaty and unattractive and gross, but they’re also only in a thin flannel shirt, whereas Kitz is bundled up in a very stylish yet very awkward coat. And a scarf. And gloves. Anjali thinks those are overkill.

Kitz sighs and leans back in the wicker chair. It creaks in protest. “Well, she’s alright now. Probably feels smug about the whole thing. Why do public servants always measure their worth in the number of people they’ve pissed off?”

“Because we have no friends,” they reply idly, watching as a paladin attempts to ride his charger down the right side of the road. Idiot. Dalaran is left hand ride.

“You’re so depressing, I swear. Want to come with me to the hospital? I’ll need your strength to get her out.”

“Why?”

Kitz rolls her eyes and pouts. “She’ll wind up in the morgue examining bodies.”

“Wannabe detective?”

“Something like that.”

“Who’s she looking for?”

Kitz frowns, and tosses her coffee back. “You know, I’ve never actually asked? Maybe you should.”

Anjali just grumbles, because they know that means they don’t have a choice. Kitz is an amusing acquaintance and good company, but she also has a habit of getting people to act contrary to their character. Anjali still hasn’t figured out if it’s magical or just pure persuasion. They suspect the former.

They meander down to the hospital. It’s busy - Saturday mornings always are - and Anjali uses their height to barge their way through the crowd to the front desk. Kitz does the talking, and they soon learn that Mandira Starshield was discharged earlier and that the receptionist has no idea where she left to.

This is always a bad sign, so Kitz pulls herself up and Anjali along with her, and directs them down to the morgue. Anjali hadn’t realised she was serious.

“And what do you call this again? Sylvanas’ Piss?”

“Formaldehyde. We use it for -”

“Embalming, yes. Oh, wow, this guy looks _busted.”_

Kitz pushes open the door, and trots down the stairs. The morgue is just like all morgues are - sterile, clean, and well lit. Anjali can almost imagine two bored pathologists playing chess in the corner, it looks that comfortable.

The resident doctor, an elderly gnome woman wearing a well-worn lab coat and spectacles, is following around an effusive elf. The doctor seems to be trying to keep the elf in check; judging by the exasperated looks she keeps throwing at the intruder, this isn’t a rare occurrence.

“Mandy, leave the poor doctor alone,” Kitz calls, trotting down the short set of stairs. Mandy - the elf - spins around at her name and grins widely. She grins in much the same way that a goblin trader grins when trying to sell Mystic Pandaren Fung Shooey; widely and with too many teeth.

“Proudbreeze! Hey, come and look at this one, someone found a way to make Forsaken _even grosser.”_

Anjali folds their arms and rests their hip on the railing of the mezzanine, and groans.

Mandira’s gaze darts to them, but she doesn’t appear to find them interesting, because she immediately launches into a (largely imagined) story about what happened to this particular corpse. The pathologist tries to add corrections, but soon figures that Mandira isn’t stopping for anyone and gives up.

Kitz seems to be used to this. She nods along, adding a few indulgent statements here and there, and subtly steers Mandira towards the stairs. The look in her eyes shows she’s more amused than resigned. Anjali enjoys Kitz’s company - a lot - but sometimes she reminds them too much of Pip for their tastes.

“Thanks for the tour!” Mandira calls back to the pathologist, and gets an irritated wave in response. Anjali ushers them out, and shuts the door behind them.

“Well, that was fun.” Mandira loops her thumbs in the pockets of her shorts - it’s _January,_ even Anjali feels cold in shorts - and grins at them. “So, who’s this?”

 

3.

Introductions are made. So is coffee. Kitz has a flat back on the main drag, and while she can’t brew a pot of tea to save her life, she makes coffee like it was battery acid. Anjali isn’t a scientist - nowhere near smart enough, for one - but they suspect if you put a copper in one of Kitz’ brews, it would dissolve.

“So, you’re a blacksmith, huh?”

They look up from squinting at the bottom of their cup, and squint at Mandira instead. “Yes.”

“Fascinating.” Mandira kicks up her feet and waves a hand in a vague gesture Anjali doesn’t understand. “Mandira Starshield, J.D. Nice to meet you.”

“Sunwarden Anjali.”

“Is that a title?”

“Mhmm.”

“Not very chatty, huh?”

They shrug. They aren’t. Not with strangers.

Mandira shrugs and gives them a quick once over. They’re not sure what she’s cataloguing, because she doesn’t look like she’s looking for weapons - they’d know if she was, because there’s a certain path the eyes travel when someone is - but rather, summing them up. They meet her gaze when she lands on their eyes, and she quirks an eyebrow awkwardly. Anjali has yet to meet someone who does that who doesn’t either look awkward, or supercilious.

“Anjali was here when Dalaran was over Northrend,” Kitz says, refilling their mugs without asking. Anjali wrinkles their nose at the pungent smell and sets it down carefully. “You never told me why you left?”

“No,” agrees Anjali. It takes them another second to realise this was an invitation, and elaborates; “Work.”

Kitz’s look tells them pretty clearly what sort of elaboration she considers this to be, and they make a face in reply. They’re not telling her where a stranger can hear, and yes, Mandira is still a stranger.

“So, how’s work?” Kitz tries again, this time looking to Mandira. Bless her soul, she tries. Anjali still hasn’t worked out why - probably something to do with her lobsters.

“Nothing new. Mostly single clients, which is easier for me. You ever tried going up against the state on a civil rights basis?” Mandira rolls her eyes and sweeps a lock of dark hair back into her scruffy bun. “Nah, I’m good without. We’ve all got our limits.”

Anjali tilts their head. “Dalaran doesn’t have any civil rights laws.”

“Yeah,” Mandira drawls, “I know. Thanks for that.”

“So how do you have a job?”

“Because there’s still legally binding articles that require people to be, you know, treated like people? Crazy, right?”

They scowl, and Mandira laughs at them. “Chill out. I defend people who’ve been treated like shit; I’m on your side.”

That’s debatable, but instead of arguing further, Anjali just drops another sugar into their coffee and lets Kitz do the talking. They’re too tired to care about some lawyer. It’s not like they’ll ever meet her again.

 

4.

Of course, this is exactly the sort of assumption someone thinks when everyone knows that the narrative is intending on doing no such thing. Anjali, being a relatively savvy individual, should have known better.

They run into Mandira Starshield, J.D., a grand total of four times in the next week. It drives them completely spare, because she seems to have this unerring nose for being right in Anjali’s way. She’s the sheet of glass that two workmen carry in during a chase; unwanted, sometimes unseen, and always, always expected.

 

5.

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“Sunwarden! Just the person I wanted to see.” Mandira is carrying a stack of binders awkwardly, and Anjali takes them and easily carries them beneath their arms. “Sorry, case notes and stuff. Anyway, I need someone with some muscle to help me with some shit, are you free Friday?”

“No.”

“Saturday?”

“No.”

“Are you ever free?”

“No.”

Mandira’s eyebrows shoot up, and she laugh-grins. “Workaholic, huh?”

“I like being able to pay rent,” they say, and Mandira concedes the point with a nod.

“Can you make time? Or will I just follow you around until you get so annoyed that you do it to make me go away?”

“That doesn’t take very long.”

“I know, it’s great.”

“You don’t even know me, why d’you want me to do it.”

Mandira gives them an incredulous look, and reaches up to squeeze their bicep. “You’re kidding, right? You could bench press me in a heartbeat, and you know it.”

They shrug, because yeah, probably, but they’re a guard and she’s a lawyer. The next time a lawyer has to be able to subdue a criminal in less than ten seconds, Anjali will start respecting their physical abilities.

“Come on. You’ve got the brawn and I’ve got the brains.” Mandira winks, as if there’s a joke she’s in on and they aren’t, and adds, “Let’s make lots of money.”

“If I say yes, you’ll treat me like a professional and go away?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever that means.”

They glare at her, and she raises her hands and kicks a heel. “I will!”

“Fine.”

Mandira gives her a wider grin - they’re beginning to suspect her face is actually made out of putty - and slugs them in the shoulder. They blink; it feels like being lightly tapped by a butterfly. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, what - ?”

But Mandira is already traipsing off, leaving Anjali with six binders of classified evidence and the beginnings of a headache forming at their temples.

 

6.

The evidence gets awkwardly put on their desk at home, next to three water bottles and the unfinished remnants of breakfast. They consider eating, but they’re not really hungry, and take a nap instead. If they were trying to forget the irritant, they didn’t succeed.

 

7.

Mandira sees them tomorrow.

“I’m _working,”_ they hiss, but Schmied the blacksmith is so enraptured in his metal work that he doesn’t seem to notice. Anjali has no quarrels with the man - he gave them a job - but he is singularly obsessive.

“The fuck, me too? We have so much in common.” Mandira leans against the wall, then leaps back, swearing. “Shit, that’s hot!”

“It’s a blacksmith.”

“Fuck off.” She goes to sit on the stairs behind them instead. “So, what d’you think?”

“About what?”

“The evidence! The case!”

“I didn’t read it. That’s classified and I am not an authorised reader.”

They can feel Mandira’s incredulous stare, and glance over their shoulder challengingly. She raises her hands in defence.

“I’m hiring you,” she says. “Seven a day.”

“My labour is worth more than _seven_.”

“Not really. The view, though. Okay, eight.”

They do glare at her on that, and she gives them a bug-eyed, puzzled look. Then something clicks, and she clarifies; “Gold.”

“Wait, what?”

“Cool! Done. My office is 723 Antonidas Way, up the stairs. I’ll see you when you get off work.”

So, they do. They collect their paycheck, nod to Schmied, and head off to Antonidas Way. It’s the second biggest street in Dalaran, next to the inner ring, and 723 should be somewhere down the shadier end.

The sun is slowly sinking, dying the entire city in a wash of red that turns the blues to purples, and the purples to some other, redder, shade of purple. Anjali unfurls their flannel sleeves and briefly debates curling their ponytail into a bun, but then remembers that it takes effort and more hair pins than they even own, and resigns themself to feeling gross and heavy.

They find 723, and the little staircase next to it. It smells, for some reason, like rabbits. They take the stairs two at a time, boots thudding loudly, and knock on the door. The plaque reads: Mandira Starshield, J.D., Civil Rights Lawyer.

Mandira opens the door, and Anjali is immediately hit with the smell of books, paper, and ink. It reminds them of the few times they’ve stopped by Orasi’s inscription place. There are shelves of binders and folders, books on law and precedent and sociology and a few crime novels. She has a small gas stove in one corner, and a kettle on top. Coffee, probably, or tea. Anjali can’t smell either right now.

The one thing that does make the office seem less like something out of a noir detective story are the large, floor to ceiling windows that show the view out over the street. Anjali wanders over, curious despite themself, and peers out. They can see the prata house below, and the sunshade of the barber next door. It also gives them a surprisingly decent view of people walking on the pavement below, and while it would be possible to avoid detection, the average client would be spotted before they reached the door. Probably without being aware of it. No one looks up.

“Impressive,” they allow, and Mandira laughs. The scent of tea wafts through.

“Thanks. It’s worth the rent just for that.” She passes them a chipped mug, and then drops down into her desk chair, feet coming to rest on her desk. Anjali leans back against the window and blows on their tea. “So, did you read the files?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

It seems simple enough. Husband abuses wife, wife sends a fireball into his chest. Dead husband, angry relatives and buddies, wife in custody. Frankly, Anjali has no idea why Mandira is defending her, let alone why she wants them as a bodyguard.

“I don’t see why you need me,” they say flatly.

Mandira slurps loudly, and Anjali raises their eyebrows. “Y’know, I did get jumped at my room. D’you want the full blown hoo-ha, or just who I want you to prevent from beating me up?”

“The second.”

“One of the husband’s friends is a bit of a sexist pig, and if he was married I’d tell his partner to get a divorce. Heard of Daniel Jacks?”

“I’ve arrested him three times downstairs.”

“That’d be him.” Mandira nods to the window. “He’s a threatening sort, likes to feel big. I have a gun that I don’t know how to use, and a lock on my door that clearly doesn’t work. So I want someone who can punch back in case he does get some liquid courage or something and decides to successfully avenge his best friend.”

Anjali thinks that over, then nods. That would be assault on a civilian, and it’s their duty to uphold the law even when they don’t have their badge. The pay is just a plus. “Alright. Do you have times?”

“He works night shifts and sleeps in the mornings. Afternoons are when he’ll be free to be a nuisance.”

“I’ll move my shifts around. How long will it last?”

“I don’t know. How long d’you want it to?”

Mandira winks, and Anjali makes a brief gagging sound before sighing and nodding. “Okay. Sort it out fast.”

“Of course.” She loses her humour, and her face relaxes into oddly serious lines. It seems like that’s her usual expression, although Anjali couldn’t say why. “I’m not a huge fan of unfair treatment. I want my client to walk free, and I want her to live free. Me too. Entitled, stifled men won’t take that from either of us.”

“You do that,” Anjali says, and returns the mug then heads back off to their room to do some more reading.

 

8.

The job is not hard. At first it’s highly professional; Anjali lurks just behind the door to Mandira’s office, watching everyone who enters and ignoring her efforts to engage them in conversation. Mandira, however, has a certain persistency to her that makes her friendship with Kitz seem understandable, and doesn’t seem to be deterred even by the most dismissive of silences.

Within three days, Anjali finds themself answering Mandira’s questions monosyllabically just to get her off their back. By the end of the week, they are having what could, in very good light and with a lot of optimism, be called conversations; an exchange of ideas, first one then the other. They had thought that Mandira would soon get bored with them - they are neither wise nor intelligent and never pretend to be so - but it seems like she’s getting encouraged with every dialogue. It’s maddening.

Kitz stops by once or twice, not exactly mother henning but certainly squinting at them both suspiciously. It’s the kind of look you give a cat and a dog when they’re in the same room. It says, ‘I may not know what’s going on here, but if anyone gets hurt, I’m separating you.’ There is also a lot of smug amusement, because this _is_ Kitz.

Jacks doesn’t show his head. Mandira remarks that she had her lock changed, and the guard were informed, and the alcoholism hasn’t been enough to cloud Jacks’ judgement quite that much. Still, she insists Anjali stay on the job, at least until the restraining order form goes through. Anjali knows bureaucracy. It’ll be a while.

 

9.

It’s precisely a week and a half after Mandira convinced them to play babysitter, and somehow they’ve ended up helping Mandira with her grunt work too.

“Just errands,” she’d said, giving them a list. “Things I need picked up. I’m busy, and Jacks is accounted for, so if you could save me some time that’d be fantastic.”

They do. They find some documents in the library, interrogate a witness for one of Mandira’s cases, and chase down some leads that ultimately go nowhere. Then they find themselves going down the familiar route to the main guard station, cobblestones shifting from cart-worn to pedestrian.

The door is propped open with a brick, and they step aside to allow a sergeant to exit before going in. There’s a corporal on duty at the front desk. They dimly recognise him, but only as a face they’ve seen before.

“How can I help you?”

“I want to pick up the prosecution’s evidence on case - ” they check their list, “37201D. Sunwarden Anjali on behalf of Mandira Starshield.”

“I’ll need to see some ID.”

They pass over their badge, and he checks it perfunctorily before nodding and handing it back. “Give me five minutes, I’ll get them.”

They nod, and go to sit on the convenient bench opposite.

People-watching isn’t a usual habit of theirs. Passive observation, yes, because there are certain instincts that never leave you, but not watching people with the intent of seeing them as individual persons. They don’t have a creative bone in their body; they used to laugh at Pip, a long long time ago, for his incessant scribbling.

They aren’t a detective either, because they never had a formal education, let alone specialist. Their mother was a laundry-woman and they had a single parent household, and without any distinguishing magical talent, education simply wasn’t on the cards. So they did their best, working where they could, until they joined the priesthood in the hopes that maybe it’d put food on the table.

They lean their head back, and watch people through half-lidded eyes.

A mage comes through, ranting and angry. She had her spellbook stolen. Apparently, she expects the guard to be able to snap their fingers and find it, because “It has tracking spells on it, you inept clods!” Anjali watches as she is escorted into an office, and when the corporal shuts the door behind her, he leans on it and exhales.

Three gnome friends come in, one after the other, all looking for each other and seeming delighted that they all succeeded. They huddle together in a little trio for about five minutes. Then, one pokes their head out the door, before reporting back to the group. They seem to be waiting for another friend, or more, and as time passes they get distinctly more agitated until they leave together.

Pip’s corporal passes through, completely focused on her own thoughts, and doesn’t notice Anjali. They don’t make any effort to gain her attention; she looks upset and worried, and is flicking through what looks like maps with breakneck speed. She disappears into the captain’s office, then comes out again after a few minutes, heading back outside. Busy girl.

They close their eyes, and breathe deeply. The tightness in their chest makes an appearance again, now that they have nothing better to think about. They open their eyes again to look for a distraction, but the shift in light sends their head reeling, and they drop their head to rest in one hand.

“I’ve got the files you’re looking for."

Their thoughts are interrupted, and they look up at the desk officer. He extends a thin packet tied with a string. “These are Ms. Starshield’s copies, she can do what she wants with them. Keep them safe and report any missing details immediately.”

“Thanks,” they say, taking them and standing. They salute out of habit, and he returns it, before disappearing back behind the counter. They tuck the packet beneath their arm, and head out. That was the last on their list and they’ve got work soon.

 

10.

They don’t manage to make it to Mandira’s office in time to drop off the files, so they drop them off the next day when they go in after their morning Underbelly shift.

“Sorry,” they say, knocking and opening the door. “Shift ran overtime. I came straight here.”

“Yeah,” Mandira says from behind a raised newspaper. Her boots are on her desk again. “I can tell. You stink.”

“Thanks.” They duck into the bathroom, and take off the greenest bits of armour and start rinsing them in the sink. Their tabard gets bundled up and set aside for last, and they don’t look in the mirror because they know they’ll see a swamp monster.

Mandira offers tea, and they say coffee instead.

Finally, they’re mostly de-greened, left in their shirt and leggings that are a nice sensible shade of black. Mandira sticks her head in, squinty and assessing, and judges them clean enough to sit on her couch. They sink down, rubbing a shoulder, and shake their head when she offers the rest of her half-eaten sandwich.

The kettle boils, coffee is brewed. It tastes nasty, but the caffeine makes it tolerable.

“Why are you an Underbelly guard, anyway?” Mandira asks, sitting back down in her chair and hefting her newspaper. The sudoku and crossword in the corner have been filled out in bright pink ink. “Can’t imagine the pay’s worth it.”

“Someone has to keep order.”

“Yeah, but why you? You’re, like, buff as hell. Go be a soldier or a priest or something worthwhile.”

“My work is worthwhile.”

“Yeah, right.”

Anjali glares at her, but it’s not heat filled. More habit. “I keep the peace. I uphold the law. I find the people you prosecute. People won’t start following the law of their own volition, so I give them a reason to.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

They go to reply, but the itch in their chest decides to attack their throat, so they take a breath and it explodes into a coughing fit.

“Fucking hell, dude,” Mandira swears, hopping up and stumbling before grabbing a mug and emptying it in the sink. She fills it with water, now stained coffee-brown, and shoves it in Anjali’s hands unceremoniously. They wheeze out a thanks.

It dies down, and they wipe their mouth with the back of their hand.

“You do that a lot?” Mandira raises her eyebrows, one flicking in an aborted movement that indicates withheld curiousity. Anjali shakes their head.

“As I was saying.” They set the mug down. “Stability and order make a city that works. That’s what I want, so I’m working to get it.”

Mandira leans on her desk, hands holding the edge and legs crossed at the ankles. The laces on her boots clack together. “That’s pretty naive though, hey? This city is a cesspit of chaos. That’s what makes it great. That it’s being run by people more corrupt than the Emerald Dream is what’s poisoning it.”

“The Kirin Tor aren’t corrupt.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“They aren’t. Silvermoon was corrupt. This isn’t like that.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “There are different ways to be corrupt. Silvermoon is what we’d call politically corrupt, or subject to grand corruption. The policy making is highly suspect and often made to benefit certain groups. Dalaran is - it’s systemic corruption. It’s from the richest archmages to the poorest workers. The entire system is built off the idea of inequality and moral descent.”

Anjali leans forward, elbows on their knees, and jiggles their looped fingers. “What’s your evidence?”

“Were you here during the initial teleportation?”

They shake their head.

“Right. So, they called a conference; the Council of Six and the other influential archmages. Already you have a problem there, because you can only be in that top tier if you have a certain amount of privilege.” Mandira sighs, and closes her eyes. “They were discussing what to do. They couldn’t teleport all of the kingdom of Dalaran, the largest sphere they could do was the main heart of the city. So all the farmers and people in the outer suburbs would be abandoned. They’d also need mages to cast the spell from the outside to stabilise the portal, and they’d be left behind too.”

“It was the logical decision.”

“Maybe. But instead of warning people, they went ahead with it. Used the most expendable apprentices to fuel the shield. Left the marginalised behind.” She opens her eyes again, and meets Anjali’s gaze with an intense seriousness. “You can’t tell me that’s just.”

They remain quiet for a moment, holding Mandira’s eyes, then shake their head.

“That’s what I thought.”

“And that’s - systemic corruption?”

“That’s a symptom. The law allowed them to do that. It was totally legal. But law and justice aren’t the same thing.”

“The law is written to uphold justice.”

“The law is written by the powerful. That’s not the same thing as the morally upstanding.”

They’re both quiet for a long time after that.

 

11.

Anjali goes out for dinner with Kitz when they get their paycheck from Schmied. She spends most of the time asking questions about how they haven’t strangled Mandira yet, which they don’t have an answer for, and teasing them about their practically nonexistent appetite. They pour five sugars into her coffee in retaliation.

They have their Underbelly shift not long after, and duck back to haul their armour on and run a quick whetstone along their scimitar. They’re going to need to replace their shield, soon; it’s battered and beaten to hell and gone, and now that Schmied trusts them, they’ll have access to blacksmithing materials. It’s always cheaper to make it yourself than buy it, no matter what discounts people offer.

They drop down to sit on their bed, and sigh, hefting their shoulderplates. They’re heavy on a good day, but today they seem like too much effort for just wandering around the sewers for six hours. But they’ve seen what happens to guards who take shortcuts, and haul them on anyway.

It’s quiet. The rogues must have some sort of business going down elsewhere, because Anjali only sends five delinquents up to the surface. They sit down on a relatively clean brick, and close their eyes for half a second, just to regain some energy. They don’t have a shift partner, not usually. They’re not always sure this is a good thing.

There’s a clanking sound from deeper into the tunnels, like full plate armour clattering together, so they open their eyes and heave to a stand. Their boots slosh in the green sewerage, ichor sticking to them.

The noise stops, but they keep searching, looking around for any signs of recent activity. Apart from a few rats, they don’t find anything. These tunnels are out farther. Not a lot of people bother to venture out this far, because there’s nothing interesting and it is, frankly, disgusting. But assassins luring victims out or people trying to stash caches; those are more common.

Nothing. They find nothing except the sound of their own armour, and a few dead fish. Whoever was working left as fast as they got their mission done.

 

12.

When Jacks finally does come, it’s very anticlimactic.

“You bitch!” The door slams open, and the man barges up into Mandira’s desk. She looks up from her paperwork, and raises her eyebrows. “You’re gonna - ”

And then Anjali’s fist clonks down on the back of his head, and he goes down like a stone.

“Well,” Mandira says, “that was exciting. Do I go get the guard now?”

“Yes,” Anjali says, and sits back down on the couch with their tea.

 

13.

“That was thirteen days of work, so thirteen times eight is - ” Mandira does some numbers on her fingers, and lands on; “One hundred and four gold.”

Anjali stares at her. She blinks back.

“That can’t be right.”

“What, you wanna check my maths? You do it.”

“One hundred gold?”

“Uh, yeah.” She cocks a hip, and squints at them. “We agreed on this earlier.”

Anjali doesn’t remember agreeing to anything; they’d assumed she’d been joking, because getting paid that much for sitting on a couch and punching a guy was ridiculous. “Is this legal?”

“I’m a _lawyer,_ of course it’s legal. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to pass laundered money to a guard.”

“One hundred gold.”

“It’s an investment.”

Anjali raises their eyebrows at that, and folds their arms. Mandira hops up to sit on her desk. Her hair is actually brushed, today, and she tugs it over one shoulder in a waterfall of black. “You’re good at what you do. I like your company. A little generosity never hurt anyone, right?”

“No.” They shift on their feet. “But that’s a lot of money. Are you rich?”

“It’s not, actually. I get paid ten gold an hour for my high end cases. This is what decent wages look like.” She pauses. “How much does that blacksmith pay you?”

“Ten silver an hour.”

“Holy fuck. And the guard?”

“Seventy-five silver a shift.”

“Right. Okay. Work with me.”

_“What?”_

She slides down, and rests her elbow on her hip. Anjali just stares at her. “Having someone around to do the heavy lifting and manual work would leave me a lot of time to get stuff done. We’d split the profit sixty-forty. You do the legwork, I do the lawyering. You can keep doing your guard work if you want, but fuck the blacksmith, he’s taking advantage of your labour.”

“He hired me when I had no other recourse.”

“And now you do. Do you know how many other immigrants are here? You could have been anyone. Listen, I’m doing good work. You want to make this city better, just like I do. So, partners. Brains and brawn.”

“Let’s make lots of money?”

Mandira looks pleased. “That’s the one. Nicely remembered.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. Cash or cheque?”

“I - I don’t know. Cash.”

“Can do.” Mandira holds the door open as they turn to leave, and grins at them. There’s less teeth, this time. Her eyes crinkle at the corners into laughter lines. “Take care of yourself, Sunwarden.”

“Starshield,” they acknowledge with a nod, then troop down the stairs. Their boots thud. Mandira’s laces clatter as she shuts the door behind them.

The street is its usual busy self. There are no Sunreaver red or Covenant blue tabards. The old pawn shop across the road as closed down, and there’s a laundrette in its place. People hurry past them, on their way to and from work, and they follow the waves for a few steps before tugging away, pulling out. The spinning barber’s pole cheerily waves red and blue above them. A stranger jostles them, and their hand instinctively darts over their pocket, but he just spares a quick apology and keeps moving. Everything keeps moving. Around them and through them. Anjali hesitates, uncertain, feeling suddenly out of their element.

Their eyes hurt. They raise one hand to rub them, but that just seems to edge the ache further into their temples, their forehead. Their armour is too heavy. Nausea rolls in their gut, making them regret the mug of tea they had earlier.

Someone in the flat above the barber is yelling, and crockery is smashing. A guard runs past, chasing someone long gone, and a few passersby call after her. The waves of traffic ebb and flow, getting stronger as more people get off work, until Anjali is pressed into the wall and still feeling like they’re in the way. A horse whinnies objectionably when its rider hauls it to a stop, and the people behind swear and yell obscenities. Road rage at its finest. They feel their heartbeat rise.

They place their hands flat on the wall behind them, putting more weight on it, and take a shuddery breath. It becomes apparent instantly that this was a bad move; their chest seizes up, and it feels like there’s a tiny goblin in their chest punching their lungs. They wheeze, cough, and then can’t stop. Their knees buckle, and they collapse to a kneel, hands coming to their chest and eyes widening in panic. Everything feels like it’s spinning around them.

Abruptly, their blurry vision is filled with black hair, and two hands grasp their cheeks. Mandira. She must have seen them from her window.

“Holy fuck, are you okay?” she says, and Anjali feels lightheaded. “Come on, come on, no no no, sit here. What’s wrong? When was the last time you ate?”

She guides them up to sit down in one of the spare seats at the prata house. They fist their hands in their hair. They vaguely hear Mandira order, but the words are slippery and there’s a buzzing in their ears.

A glass bottle of water is shoved into their line of sight, but the thought of drinking it makes them want to vomit. The smell of curry hits them, and then the familiar oil and grease of really cheap prata, and they have to press their hands over the mouth to actually hold it back.

“Come on, you have to eat, you’re pale as - something really pale. At least finish half.” Mandira clearly has no idea how to comfort someone, which is fine, because Anjali has no idea how to be comforted. She scoots closer, hands flitting around uselessly, then awkwardly pats their shoulder. They briefly shut their eyes and purse their lips. “Anjali, you have to _eat.”_

“I feel sick.”

It takes a miracle to get the words out, and Mandira seems to recognise this, but she just pushes the water closer. “I know. You look like shit. But I haven’t seen you eat like, ever, and you work over lunch with me.”

“I don’t eat lunch.”

“Yeah, that’s my point. Come on, these guys’ prata is really good. Just eat a little bit.”

Anjali manages two pieces before shoving the plates away and burying their head in their hands again. Mandira slips an arm under their shoulders.

“Let’s get you back home. And go see a doctor.”

“No,” they say instantly, a spike of panic rising in their stomach. “No, no doctors. No.”

“Okay, okay. No doctors. But home, yeah? Sound good?”

They nod, briefly, and regret the sharp movement almost immediately. Mandira helps them up, leaves some coins on the table, and then helps them back home. They have their eyes shut for most of it. The nausea and helplessness is excruciating in the way only emotional turmoil can be.

“Come on,” Mandira says. “You’ll be fine. Promise.”

That ends up being the first of many promises that Mandira Starshield, J.D., does not keep.


	6. Missing, Presumed Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lirien plays detective.

1. 

“Where is he?!” 

Lirien slams the rogue back, making his tongue flail around wildly. It’s kind of disgusting. Actually, it’s totally disgusting, and the only reason she doesn’t regret the decision is because she’s too busy threatening to bury her fist in his skull. Police brutality, who?

It’s a bit difficult to speak when you haven’t got a lower jaw, so he glares at her and makes a shrugging gesture. This is not good enough.

“I know he was seen exchanging documents with you,” she snaps, and yanks the Griefer up by his armour straps. The advantage of rogue armour is there’s always something for a warrior to heft. “You were trading information. What did you tell him?”

The Griefer points at his lower jaw, and makes a sarcastic gargling noise. She shakes him a bit more.

“Don’t talk back to me. I could arrest you here and now.”

He gives her a look, and even though she can’t see his pupils, she gets the feeling he’s rolling his eyes at her. _But you won’t,_ is the unspoken retort. He’s right, of course, because she’s not corrupt or Sunwarden Anjali, who is so legal they come out the other end, but he shouldn’t know that.

“Where did he go after you met with him?”

He digs around in a pocket, and one of her hands instinctively goes down to her sword belt, but he just carefully raises a map defensively and gives her a mocking tongue waggle. He shakes it out with a surprisingly graceful flick of his wrist, and dangles it above their heads between his thumb and index finger.

She lets go, steps back, and shakes her hands out.

“Araghrhh,” he says, and it sounds like a thank you. A sarcastic one. She spends enough time with Sarge to know what sarcasm sounds like across all barriers.

“Where did he go?” she repeats, and the Griefer lowers the map down into better light. Insofar as the Underbelly _has_ better light; you’re lucky if the glowing green sewerage hits your paper at the right angles. He traces a path up to Dalaran proper, then flips the map, tapping the exit. “And after that?”

He shrugs, and makes a circling motion with his finger, indicating he doesn’t know the exact route. But he taps a spot near Krasus’ Landing, and scratches a bit.

“That’s behind the city walls.” 

He shakes his head, and scratches again.

“Between?”

A nod, and the map is pocketed. He twirls his fingers demandingly, and she sighs, and tugs her wallet out to pass over some coins. He raises his mouldy eyebrows in surprise at her quick concession.  

“What?” She tucks the wallet back into her pocket and shrugs. “You gave me what I wanted. Sorry for - y’know, all the threats.” 

He laughs, a horrible movement that shows her exactly how much of his throat he’s missing, and reaches up to ruffle her braids. His fingers are thin and bony, but gentle. He pats her shoulder, then taps his chest and points to her.  

“Thanks. Did I do okay?”

He makes a so-so wave, and she folds her arms. He laughs again, and straightens up, nodding for her to do the same. She does, and he pushes her shoulders back carefully.

“Oh, okay. Do I slouch?” She rubs her back a bit. She hadn’t noticed. “Thank you. Sarge doesn’t really teach intimidation.”

The Griefer cackles - there’s a tonal difference to the gargling that indicates a more wicked amusement - and shakes his head. He taps the pocket with his map again, and nods towards the path leading out of the Underbelly. She deflates a bit.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Listen, thanks? I’m really sorry about the whole - ” She mimes shaking. “Have a good day.”

He pats her shoulder in amusement, and then she blinks, and he’s gone. Fucking rogues.

 

2. 

Her apartment is near the main precinct, ironically. There’s a set of tenements just behind the guardhouse, in what was once a set of pre-First War Dalarani houses. They’ve all been chopped up and subdivided now, to make room for the hundreds of immigrants coming in and out, but it’s just the right size and rent for a single mother, _her_ mother, and her toddler.  

“Maame, I’m home,” she calls, dropping her keys in the bowl on the mantelpiece. The jangling sound functions something like a doorbell, and immediately a tiny blur shoots out from the living room and attaches itself to her legs. She laughs, loud and excited, and scoops Hugo up into a full body swing.

“Maman, Maman!” he yells, wriggling and bleughing as she showers him in kisses. “Look Mamie!”

“Oh yeah?” She sets him down, and he grabs her hand, tugging her along on clumsy feet into the kitchen. Her mother, a woman of many names - Maame, Mamie, Esi Afendi - is busy cooking. “Mamie, what is it?” 

Esi laughs, low and fond, and wags her wooden spoon at Hugo. “You do not want it to be a surprise?”

“Oops,” he says, briefly abashed in the way only a three year old can be, then tugs on Lirien’s pant leg again. “Look, look!”

Lirien hefts him up, and he points to the pot Esi is stirring. It’s filled with a thick, bright yellow stew, and the smell of fish and garlic wafts through as Esi steps aside.

“Bourride!” Lirien bounces Hugo a bit, and he squeals. “Your favourite!”

“My favrit!”

“Have you said thank you, Mamie?”

“Thank you, Mamie!”

He starts wriggling again, and Lirien sets him down, allowing him to clamber back up onto his chair at their little table and go back to his crayons. Esi laughs again, and gives her a smile as she kisses her cheeks.  

“Thanks,” she says earnestly, and pours herself a glass of water from the jug on the bench. Esi goes back to her stirring. “You spoil us.” 

“You are my darlings,” she replies sternly. “I will make you eat. Did it go well?”

Lirien shrugs. “I guess? My contact gave me a spot, I’ll check it out tomorrow. Didn’t actually get anything else.”

“Anything is better than nothing. You will be careful, yes?”

“Always.”

“Good.” Esi carefully begins to dole the bourride out into bowls, and gives Lirien another look. “No man is worth losing you.” 

Lirien kisses her cheek again, and picks up two bowls to move over to the table. “I know. You won’t.” 

“He makes a pretty garden,” Hugo tells her as she replaces his paper with his dinner. She raises her eyebrows, and he picks up his spoon. It’s not hard to figure out who he’s talking about, given that almost all of Lirien’s conversations at home this week have been about her little missing persons case.

“When’d he do that?” 

“When he hello!” Hugo prods at his shrimps and beams. “He makes a under-water garden. Fish and shrimpies!” 

She doesn’t remember that, but Hugo’s probably right. For such a little kid, he’s got a good memory; maybe he’ll be a detective when he grows up. (She hopes not.) 

Esi joins them, and they sit and eat, talking about this and that. Hugo tells them all about his daycare, and how Mister Hernan gives him fruit when he’s hungry. Esi reminds Lirien of her dentist appointment, tells her about today’s mail, and scolds Hugo for getting food down his shirt. Lirien, exhausted from her shift and then her search mission, just listens and laughs and nods.

She does the washing up, and sets the bowls and pot out to dry. Hugo is getting sleepy - they can always tell, because he goes up to sit on the couch and cuddle into a pillow - so she picks him up, makes sure they give Esi her goodnight kisses, and takes him to bed.

“Story,” he demands, once she has him tucked in with Boo the Bear, and she laughs and nods.

“Bedtime story. What will we read today?” She picks up their little stack of children’s books, and goes through slowly. “The Little Bird? The Going To Sleep Book? Counting Sheep?” 

“Sheep!” 

“Counting Sheep!”

She hops up to sit next to him, and he burrows in and sticks his thumb in his mouth. She reads expressively, enunciating the words with the same rhythm and cadence as the other fifty times she’s read it, until he’s fallen asleep in her lap. She strokes his hair gently.

He looks more and more like her older brother every day. It hurts, but it’s better than looking like his father.

She kisses his forehead as she leaves, blows the lamp out, and closes the door silently.  

Esi is waiting for her in their shared room. She’s weaving, shuttling her loom back and forth in the _clack-clatter_ that Lirien has known her entire life. She watches for a while, still as curious and clueless as she was at ten instead of twenty, and follows the brightly coloured threads with her eyes. Esi is weaving a rug.  

“Maame,” she asks, voice less confident, “what do I do if I find him and he’s…” 

“You tell it to your captain,” Esi says, “and he will do it from then. You will come home, and I will hug you.”

“I want to find him so bad.”

“I know, _ma chérie.”_ Esi offers a hand. Lirien takes it, and sits down on the floor at her feet. “You will.”

She leans her head on her mother’s knees, and Esi strokes her head gently with her free hand. The beads at the ends of her braids clatter, forlorn and empty next to the vast quiet of the silent loom, echoing in the night. It’s not that late, but it feels it.

She knows what to do next. If that doesn’t work - well. She’ll just go back to square one.

 

3.

Square one turns out to be looking more and more like a desirable option. The little nook - or perhaps a cranny - between the walls is occupied only by a very unfriendly blood elf and an even unfriendlier troll. Lirien apologises, letting her guard instincts drop, and backs away quickly.  

She backs away so quickly that she doesn’t notice the wizard until she bumps up against them and steps on their toes.

“Shit, sorry!” She yelps, and spins, just in time to catch them yelping and spinning too. They spin, and keep spinning, and clutch at their foot while cussing out someone called Malygos. Lirien has no idea who that is.

“Watch where you go!” they snap, and Lirien raises her hands in apology. “These shoes are couture!”

She looks down at said shoes. They’re very pretty, pointy things with rhinestones across the strap.

“I’m super sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?” 

They sniff, and rub at their toes, which are slowly going red. “After your brutal attack, I fear my toes may never be. You might have broken one!” 

“I’m really sorry.”

She pauses, then digs out the little sketch she’s been carrying with her. If Creepy 1 and Creepy 2 are too busy being creepy to answer her questions, she may as well ask this person. “I’m looking for someone. D’you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“You sound like a guard,” they reply snippily, then fold their arms. “Very well. Have at it.”

“Have you seen this man?” 

She proffers the sketch. The albino elf - and she knows they are an elf because it very helpfully says so on their pointy wizard hat - takes it, squints, squints some more, then says; “Why are you looking for him?”

“Because he’s missing.” This seems fairly self explanatory.

“But how do you know him?”

“What?” She frowns. “He’s my sergeant.”

“So you _are_ a guard!” 

“Uh. Yeah.” 

They flick the little scrap of paper, then give it back. “I haven’t seen him recently.”

“But you’ve seen him? Where?”

“Eating all our cereal like the filthy cereal-eater he is.” They scowl, and then scowl at her. “How did you know to look here?” 

She blinks at them. That is a very strange question. “Why do you care?” 

“Because you are suspicious!”  

_“Me?”_

“Yes, you! Who else would I be talking to?” They jab their finger at her chest, and she recoils and bats it away. What a weirdo. “How am I to know you weren’t lying in wait for me, too, and have lured me here to this hidden location to do away with me?”

“Why would I want to ‘do away’ with you?” She’s too mindboggled to be annoyed. “And there’s two witnesses just there, that’s ridiculous.”

“Are you calling me ridiculous?”

“What? No, of course not. I’m saying your conspiracy theory’s ridiculous. What d’you mean, ‘too’?”

“What?” 

“What?”

She stares at them, and they stare back. She is very confused. She thinks they are also very confused. She wonders, briefly, on the nature of confusion and expectation, then decides that this is really not the time nor the place to be plotting a pseudo-philosophical essay on the nature of sentience and logic.  

“D’you know this man?”

“Of course I know him,” they snap, and tug out a similar picture from their pocket. It’s stylised and artistic, rather than Lirien’s police sketch, and overly exaggerated. A self portrait. (He drew himself deadpan. It’s uncanny.) “I’m looking for him too.” 

“Are you friends?”

“Are we _friends.”_ The elf scoffs, and waves the drawing around. “If you don’t even know that, then you must be even more ignorant than I first suspected.”

She stares at them, then snaps her fingers. “You’re the roommate!” 

“Who _else_ would I be?” They tuck the picture back into their pocket. “I am Orasigosi, Grand Arcanist, and you are a terrible investigator.”

“I’m Lirien, Grand Corporal, and I’m a perfectly good investigator. We both got here at the same time, didn’t we?”

“Well.” They don’t have an argument for that. “I suppose.”

She pauses, and looks them up and down. They certainly look like one of those rich, oblivious magisters that this city seems to be full of. But having a close relation aid in an investigation is always a help.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

“I don’t drink it. Nasty stuff. But I would acquiesce to a juice.”

She shakes her head disbelievingly, and resigns herself to the afternoon to come.

 

4. 

It’s exactly as trying as she feared it might be.

She doesn’t know what she expected.

She rather thinks, in his absence, she’s turning into Sarge.

 

5.

There’s a Barstucks coffee shop just next to the bank, and Lirien waves Orasigosi off to a table and fishes out her wallet. One orange juice for Mx. Snobby, and a cinnamon latte for her. The cashier looks between the two of them.

“It’s not a date,” Lirien says, and it comes out so resigned that she can almost feel Sarge standing behind her shoulder giving her a thumbs up. The cashier just nods bemusedly, and hands her the latte.

Orasigosi has chosen a couch in a corner, and is curled up on it with none of the decorum she’d seen earlier. They look rather like a cat; feet up, knees in, eyes zeroed in on the orange juice like it’s a particularly tasty bowl of fish. Lirien gives it to them, and it’s empty in about three seconds.

“Acceptable,” they say, and lean back. They survey Lirien with glowing blue eyes. Elves are fucking creepy. “So, Lucienne - ”

“Lirien.”

“ - why are _you_ looking for him? Is it a police investigation? Have the fools finally learnt to be efficient?”

“Uh, no. Sorry. I’m just doing it in my free time.”

“Unsurprising.” They sniff. Lirien wonders if perhaps there is something wrong with their nose. “Useless mortals.”

Sarge has the weirdest friends.

“Sure, whatever.” She takes out her notebook, and her map, and her pen. She ties the latter into her hair with two braids. “D’you know where he is?”

“Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn’t be wasting my time searching for him.”

“But do you know where he might have gone?”

“Pradip,” Orasigosi says haughtily, “is a horrendously boring individual until he is forcefully dragged out of his ruts. That he would knowingly do something so interesting as disappear seems _vastly_ unlikely.”

“You’re kind of being unhelpful.”

“If you ask stupid questions, expect useless replies.”

Lirien sighs, and leans forward on her elbows. She bounces her notebook a bit, but it isn’t satisfying. “Maybe I should just ask Sunwarden Anjali.”

Orasigosi sits up immediately and spits out - something. “Absolutely not! There is nothing they can do that I cannot do a thousand times more efficiently, and more skillfully, and with far less inane obedience to petty mortal laws. And I am infinitely more charming. Their presence is absolutely not required.”

“You’re not friends?”

“Of course we are friends. I am simply superior in all ways.”

“...right. Sure. Why not.” Shit, she really is starting to sound like Sarge. This has to stop. “So? What leads do you have?”

They shift, very slightly, and tap their long nails on their empty juice bottle. The glass clatters and chimes. “It would seem, none more than you yourself. I had expected to find a new one where we met.”

“Yeah, no, me too.” She frowns, and rubs her temples. “Were you the last person to see him, d’you think?”

“I cannot say. I went to take a well-deserved nap, but I believe Anjali was still in the living room and awake. Either Pip left before they did, or vice versa.” 

“We should ask, then. They’d be able to tell us.”

“Good luck.” Orasigosi examines their nails idly; they’re very pointy, almost like someone had taken a file to them, and Lirien instinctively glances to her own. Her polish is wearing out, she’ll redo it tonight. “They are disgustingly elusive.”

“Can’t you just check where they live?”

“I have _tried.”_ They scowl and flick a finger. “They’ve vanished in a haze of work and leftovers.”

“That’s gross.”

“I know.”

Lirien licks her thumb and flicks through the pages of her notebook, the notes and sketches from this case and earlier ones blurring into a haze of unanswered questions. Orasigosi, although they probably haven’t meant to, has made an important point; if she doesn’t ask the right questions, she won’t get answers that will help her. So far, she’s been asking for ‘where,’ but that’s not the only angle of inquiry. The others on the list - who, why, how, when - are equally as important and unknown.  

She starts a new page, and takes the pen from her hair. After a fortifying sip of coffee, she sets to work, making a set of boxes on the little page out of the lines. Then, she labels each of them with a question, and associates it with a name; someone she could ask and hope to get an answer.

[ ](https://gyazo.com/032a5f66e1f4ff2794441041b4744431)

Orasigosi leans forward, peering over to see what she’s doing, so she sits back and shows them the page.

“These are the questions I’ve got to answer,” she says. “‘Where’ isn’t getting me anywhere? So I’m going to try these. What can you tell me about Sarge?”

They stroke their chin, then tap their nails against it in a twirling pattern. Their fingers are almost spindly, and the length is only exaggerated by the length of - honestly, Lirien would almost call them _talons,_ they look like they could take someone’s eye out. “That is a very broad question, and it would be wiser to ask something more specific. I cannot answer it all as it is!”

“Alright. Uh…” She spins her pen. “Does he have any family?”

“Extended relations on his mother’s side - the human one, you know. They’re all Tirasian. I have met one cousin, Jasmine or something, who was so arrogant I wanted to ice her there and then. But Pip said not even hypothermia could kill her ego, so I kindly restrained myself.”

“Would he have gone to see them, then…?”

“I do not believe he is suicidal, no.”

She shakes her head, a little horrified at the flippancy, and notes this down on her next page. “Okay. What about his father’s side?” 

“Dead, as far as I know.”

“Oh.” That makes a lot of sense, actually. “Right. He doesn’t have a partner or anything?” 

Orasigosi frowns as they think. “If you mean in the romantic or sexual sense, no, I do not believe so. I don’t pay attention. It was just us and Anjali while we were travelling.”

She bounces her pen against the notebook, the tip leaving little splotches that start forming a vague circular dot. “No enemies?”

“None.” 

“I’m stumped.” 

“Well,” they say, a little patronisingly, “that’s only to be expected, for a human.”

If there were a camera, she would have stared into it.

 

6.

Captain Elsingham’s office is somewhere that Lirien has a fair amount of experience with, since she’s been in there often enough even if she doesn’t stay for long. She can, sometimes, maybe, let her righteous indignation overtake her a little bit, and Sarge has to drag her out before she accuses the Captain of something that’ll get her fired. She isn’t hotheaded, per se, she just thinks that confrontation is the sensible option when faced with suspicious behaviour. Sarge doesn’t agree.

It’s noisy, because the guard station is always noisy, and Elsingham looks tired of her already. She shifts in her stance, just a smidgen, and opens her mouth to talk, but Orasigosi leaps in first.

“Why has Sergeant Evensky disappeared?”

Elsingham leans back in his chair and frowns at Orasigosi, no doubt expecting this line of inquiry and already frustrated with it. Lirien straightens even further and folds her hands behind her back in a vain attempt at composure. 

“He’s been missing for a week, Captain. He’s a valuable member of the guard and I think - well, you know, it’s important to try to keep good cops on the force.”

“We’ve already discussed this, Afendi, I don’t know where he is.”

“I know, sir,” she says earnestly. “But I wanted to ask if you might know why.”

He pushes his papers around on his desk, straightening them into neat little piles. His entire office is ordered as if it were under constant inspection, and since he’s the Captain, she supposes it is. The books are aligned, the filing cabinets are utterly free of dust, and there are even little squares marked out for where various plants and stationary belong.  

She’s never really had much of a relationship with the Captain, because he’s much higher up than her and he oversees, like, three dozen recruits. Sarge doesn’t either, but then again, Sarge isn’t really the most social person out there. The fact that she can name all of his friends and she’s only been working with him for two months or so is… a bit sad.

“I don’t know where he is,” he repeats.

“But what was he doing?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”

Orasigosi chimes in. “So you do know, but you are being deliberately obtuse.”

Elsingham stares at them. They look back, and Lirien is mildly afraid that Elsingham will kick him out for over-snootiness.

“Who are you, again?” 

“Orasigosi, Grandchild of Senegos, Grand Arcanist of Nar’thalas, and it would do you some good to show me my due respect.” 

She vaguely recognises both of those names from adventurers’ pub talk, but can’t place them. Elsingham, however, seems to, as he raises his eyebrows and leans forward on his elbows. His papers are arranged so perfectly that there are two little gaps for this exact purpose.

“And what is Orasigosi, Grandchild of Senegos, Grand Arcanist of Nar’thalas, doing in Dalaran looking for a missing sergeant?”

“He is my employee,” they say haughtily. “I find you all most curious and require books and anecdotes to study you.”

“Is that so?”

“Do you challenge me?” They draw themself up, and Lirien could swear that they were literally two inches shorter not an hour ago. Their heels glitter menacingly. “I could turn you into a sandpiper for your insolence - or a skrog, or a mo’arg!”

Elsingham raises his hands and his shoulders relax, but she gets the distinct impression that he’s just humouring them. If she isn’t that scared of Orasigosi, why on Azeroth would he be?  

“Alright. So he’s your employee. And you want him back because…?” 

“He works enough and he doesn’t waste my time with chatter or opinions.” 

Well. That’s definitely believable. Whatever Elsingham was looking for, this must be close enough, as he flicks through his papers and draws out - oh, that’s Sarge’s file! 

She realises she’s said this aloud, and flushes in embarrassment. Elsingham gives her a look, then turns to the back, where the most recent papers are. The last one is a copy of a mission briefing, it looks like. 

“Sergeant Evensky is researching a case, as per my orders.” Lirien straightens up in excitement. “He has not reported in, he has not had any communications with me, and I do not know his current whereabouts.”

“What’s he supposed to be doing?”

“That’s classified.” 

She growls involuntarily, then shifts on her feet. Of course it’s classified. Everything important is classified. She wishes she could complain that it’s a Dalaran problem, but she knows logically that Dalaran isn’t alone in it. “Can you tell us _anything?”_  

Elsingham gives her a reproachful look, and she reins herself in. Right. Manners in front of authority.

“Sorry, sir.” She pauses, then asks, “So, since you don’t know where he is and you can’t tell us what he’s doing, and you haven’t talked to him at all, maybe it makes sense to put someone extra on the case?”

The eyebrows rise. Light, that man has some expressive eyebrows, and he’s not even an elf. “Like, I take it, the sergeant in question’s corporal?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“I could.” 

“But would you?” 

“Not if you continue to be a prime example of insubordination.”

“She has my approval,” says Orasigosi, as if that’s the only reference she needs on her resume for this hypothetical interview.

“Thanks,” she mutters, and tries to look proper and guardly. Sarge isn’t exactly good at teaching that; maybe if she pays Sunwarden Anjali enough, they’ll give her some pointers. “Please, sir.” 

“I will consider it,” he says, and then rustles his papers meaningfully. “Dismissed. Your Excellency.”

Lirien rips off a mediocre salute, and Orasigosi huffs snootily, and they book it.

 

7. 

She gets the job.

 

8.

“What’s a Grand Arcanist?” 

“Me.”

“Yeah, but what d’you do?”

“I manipulate magic itself, would be the idiot’s guide. You are too inexperienced and uneducated to understand.”

“Hey, that’s rude.”

“You asked.”

“Where’s Nar’thalas?”

“A ruined city in Azsuna. Full of dead elves. Ghastly place, can’t stand them.”

“How are you their Grand Arcanist, then?”

“I am not. That position would be far beneath someone of my superior talents and skills.”

“Oh. You lied.”

“Very astute.”

“Are you always this pissy?”

“I am not pissy! You are the one stating the obvious and then getting huffy about it!” 

“Alright, chill out. Look, I’ll get you another juice or something.”

“I want a steak.”

“I can’t afford a steak.”

“I want a _small_ steak.”

“Alright, okay. Small steak. And you stop being annoying and start being helpful.”

“That,” sniffs Orasigosi, straightening their pointy hat, “is impossible.”

 

9.

They meet at the guards’ pub, after that, because if there’s anywhere they can be guaranteed some peace and quiet and not get weird looks, it’s at Sanjit’s. He sells beer at ten copper a bottle and has what could, debatably, be called orange juice. And Lirien knows who to pick on to get a table.

She shares everything she does with Orasigosi. She doesn’t know exactly what Sarge was doing, because Elsingham is a stubborn man determined to keep quiet, but the assignment he was working on is hers now. The general gist of it seems to be searching for spies in the city; she still doesn’t know why it’s the guard’s problem, since the Kirin Tor should take some initiative in their own defence that isn’t teleporting and blasting things, but she can’t complain. Literally. She’d probably be fired and blacklisted. 

It’s above ground, at least. There’s nothing in the miniscule briefing about searching the Underbelly, which she is grateful as _fuck_ for, because there is no way she’s going back downstairs without a solid lead. But whoever these spies are must have something to do with it, otherwise that poor dead fellow wouldn’t’ve spent all that effort carving that message into the walls of the sewers.  

While she tries to puzzle her way onto the same leads Sarge must have followed, Orasigosi is tasked with searching for Sunwarden Anjali, because there is no way Lirien is turning that particular stone. She’s met the dangerous guard three or four times, and she’s still not sure that she’s even made an impression. She’s kind of scared of them, and kind of wants them to think she’s cool. Which, to be fair, is what most people in authority stir in her. 

Neither of them are having much luck, until she’s looking through maps of previous iterations of the floating city and hits a breakthrough.

“I have a lead.”

She grabs Orasigosi’s arm to get their attention, and they immediately gasp and yank it back. “This is _couture,”_ they hiss, “how many times must I remind you? Keep your filthy paws to yourself!”

She ignores them, and tugs her map out of her pocket, spreading it out and flattening it. It’s one of those neat folding ones with the different levels of Dalaran, and she circles the spot that the Griefer indicated to her on the top map.  

“This’s where we were told to go, right?” She flicks to the Underbelly. “And he said go up this exit. And that means it’s upstairs, right?”

“Yes, yes, get to your point. I have no time for deductions.” 

She pouts a bit, because let her at least show off that she _can_ keep up, thanks, even if she is younger than - well, just about everyone. “He said he didn’t know the exact route, but it was between. What if it wasn’t between the walls, but between the _floors?”_

Orasigosi squints at her, and she gazes earnestly back. “You mean - ” 

“Another level.” She flicks between the two. There isn’t a map, but there are levels below, mostly belonging to rogues and thieves and sewerage. There’s a distinct possibility that there’s a level hidden away, or a mezzanine, or some other hidden passageway that would pass unnoticed. Since it isn’t mapped, no one goes looking for it. “Somewhere hidden, and secret, and hard to get to. It’s a perfect hideout.” 

Orasigosi clatters their nails on the table. “There are extensive cave networks at Azurewing Repose, far more than most mortals can manage to traverse due to the condensed mana crystals. Whelplings used to hide in them when danger was near.” 

“Maybe it’s somewhere where the shit’s more radioactive, or there’re a heck ton of traps, or something like that. Who knows what else could be down there?” 

She starts folding the map back up and stuffing it in her pockets, getting ready to head there right away, but Orasigosi snaps their fingers a few times to capture her attention. “I need my staff and some of Pip’s shoes, because I shall not be subjecting mine to sentient sewerage. And I still have not located Anjali.”

“Then you better hurry up,” is all she replies with, and launches off to Investigate.

 

10. 

They take the stairs that the Griefer had suggested, and troop down. Lirien leads the way, kitted out in her armour with her sword dangling off her hip and Esi’s scolded warnings in her head; don’t die, don’t get your friend killed, don’t get anything on your nice new shirt. That last one’s pretty much a hopeless cause, but Lirien was too fired up to go home and change into something old and sewerage-able.  

“What’re we looking for?” she hisses over her shoulder, and Orasigosi hisses back. 

“How am I supposed to know? Use your intuition or something. It must be along this path somewhere.”

So they search, examining the walls and ducking into any number of alcoves and side corridors and pipes. Lirien spots a suspiciously clean bit of mortar, and shoves her hand against it, because everyone knows that’s how you trigger a device. She’s right. It slides back with a horrible grinding sound, and the entire section of wall clunks aside to reveal a short set of steps up.

It’s a mezzanine.

She bites back a giddy laugh, and waves enthusiastically for Orasigosi, before traipsing up the steps eagerly. She did it! She’s found it! Sarge has to be here somewhere, or at the very least a clue to where she has to go next. Tracing his steps, as the saying goes.

The steps lead up to a hall, lit on the opposite side by a few dimly glowing torches. There are supplies and devices and materials scattered around; it’s a hideout, or maybe a hoard, but definitely occupied. She moves a bit quicker, but sees some movement in one corner of the room, and comes to a screeching halt just at the edge of where the light can reach. 

There are three demons inside. Real demons, proper ones, like those adventurers are always bragging about fighting. One is a huge thing with a massive horned helm, which for lack of a better moniker, Lirien catalogues as Horny. There’s a tiny little one with a circular body and spindly little limbs running between crates, and it keeps spitting up little bits of green slime; Belcher. The third is a little imp - she knows that much, at least - with wickedly sharp Fangs.

She slams an arm out, but she’s too late. Orasigosi barrels into her from behind, and they both stumble into view, causing Horny to bellow and Belcher to shriek. Instinctively, she fumbles her sword out and raises it defensively, but the threatening stance loses some of its potency as Orasigosi stumbles around behind her, swearing their head off.

“Kill them!” Horny bellows, and Belcher throws itself at Lirien. She has no idea how to fight a demon, let alone one that projectile vomits fel sludge, and finds herself losing ground by the second as she dodges and fends it off as best she can. A bit catches her sleeve, and it burns through, corrosive to the fabric and then to her skin. She cries out, and stamps it down with her free hand.

In her peripheral vision, she can see Orasigosi and Fangs trading spells; Fangs is flinging balls of fire at them, and Orasigosi is retaliating with beautiful shimmering blasts. But while the fireballs fizzle away on Orasigosi’s mirage of a shield, their blasts pop and pucker at Fangs’ own. While Lirien does figure that one of them will have to run out of mana before the other, she’ll be dead by then, and it won’t matter much anymore.

Belcher rakes out with its hands, sharp talons clattering against Lirien’s armour, and she slams out with her sword. She takes its hand off, and for a brief moment, relishes in the success. But then Belcher throws a literal bomb in her direction, and she has to book it towards the other side of the room before the thing detonates and sends smoke and fumes puffing through the room.  

Horny, apparently realising the incompetence of its minions - can demons be the minions of another demon? It seems like it - whips out two long swords and barrels towards Lirien. She panics, wishing she had a shield or something, and it’s all she can do to stay on her feet and not get trampled into the floor by the whirlwind of blades.

She steps back one step, two steps, three and four, until Horny is finished spiralling, then catches its left blade with her own. She ducks his right, and kicks her foot out desperately, sending it back half a step and giving her enough space to fall back into a defensive stance. It may be two against one, but she’ll be damned if she’s not going out without taking at least one of them with her.

She thinks of Hugo, and her grip on her sword shakes.

Suddenly, there’s a blinding flash of light, and the entire area is illuminated in gold. Lirien cries out as her vision blurs, darting back to the relative safety of the wall, and Orasigosi dives to the side. From the other end of the hall, a tall, armoured figure comes striding in, lit up like a column of holy fire. Horny gets a slice through the stomach, then a stab into the gut, and its blades clatter to the floor just in time for its arms to get slashed open. Belcher is slammed in the face with a shield, then kicked solidly in - do demons even have those? - and slammed again. Fangs makes a break for it, running blindly towards what it probably hopes is an exit, but gets its feet swept out from under it and their head lopped straight off. It crumples to the floor like a ragdoll.

“Well,” says Sunwarden Anjali, swishing their scimitar and sliding it back into its sheath. Their shield glints and shimmers in the now-dwindling light, and their ponytail, with an impeccable sense of drama, swoops behind them in a vivid spray of red. “Looks like you did need me after all.”


End file.
